


If I've Killed One Man, I've Killed Two

by Bathorybabe



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathorybabe/pseuds/Bathorybabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in Awakening, Harlow Tabris returns to Denerim to foil an assassination plot on her ex-lover and current King of Ferelden. But Alistair has changed greatly in the time she has been away and she wonders if he's even worth saving. A F!Tabris/Alistair pairing with other familliar faces. Rated Teen for now (for language and refrence to sex) Mature eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The title of this piece comes from a line in the Sylvia Plath poem "Daddy" and will make far more sense in later chapters I swear. So in this world, Alistair was hardened, crowned king, but Tabris did not take him up on his offer for her to become his mistress. Also, he slept with Morrigan  as part of the dark ritual...that's really all the back story you need. Enjoy!**

 

Harlow Tabris shook off the rain that clung to her cloak as she stepped inside the pearl. It was unfit for man nor darkspawn out there, the northern winds having brought one raging bitch of a storm with them.

                “Good to be back in Denerim,” she muttered with a scowl as a serving girl hurried hastily to take her cloak. She handed it over greatly and ran her fingers through her newly shorn obsidian hair. It always surprised her when the path from root to end ended abruptly at her nape. It was as if she had not quite gotten over the fact that her tresses no longer trailed down her shoulders to end at the small of her back. For the hundredth time she wondered what had possessed her to chop it all off into a severe and sharp a-line bob, and then, for the hundredth and one time she remembered. Trying to shrug off the painful reminder she stepped into the brothel proper, took a seat at the bar, and motioned for the barkeep. After ordering a small tankard of ale, she surveyed the room and caught the eye of a dwarven women, heavily made up, clothing fitting snugly about her chest. With a crook of her finger she motioned the girl over.

                “How can I help you, lovie?” The dwarf asked; a hand placed suggestively on Harlow’s leg.

                “You can help me with information, _dearie_ ,” Harlow replied good naturedly as she gently removed the hand. The dwarf shrugged in indifference and crossed her arms over her chest.

                “Costs the same as the other, I’d wager, nothin’s free in the pearl, you understand?”

                Harlow chuckled softly as she plucked a sovereign from the depths of the purse she wore tied to the belt her waist. She held it up before the dwarf with a raised eyebrow.

                “More than twice the going rate, unless the asking price has gone up since I’ve been gone. Should be more than enough to get the answer I’m looking for.”

                “That’ll do me, it’s your coin after all, where should I care where you spend it,” The dwarf replied with a shrug, snatching the coin from Harlow’s hand. “Now, what can Clara do for ye?”

                Pausing to take a large gulp of ale, Harlow hoped she had come to the right place. It made the most sense, and she wasn’t interested in chasing her quarry all over Denerim in this storm.

                “I’m looking for a man…and elf to be exact, I heard he frequents here.”

                “This a husband of yours?” Clara asked, a mean spirited grin forming on her lips, “sorry love, but we’re in the business of keepin out clients secrets, specially from jealous wives. I swear, you knife ears are so-“

                Harlow pinned the dwarf with a glare that showed every drop of malice she felt for that word.

                “Finnish that thought or use that phrase within my hearing again and I will gut you with something much sharper than my ears,” she growled through clenched teeth. Clara’s face turned a ghastly shade of white as the blood drained from fear. “You would do well to remember that not all elves are weak little gutter rats holed up in the alienage.”

                “Y-yes ma’am,” Clara stammered, taking a step back.

                “As to my question, no, he is not my husband. He is a dear friend of mine and I merely wish to give him some information. Is that clear?” She watched as Clara quickly bobbed her head in agreement and drew on the tankard of ale once more.

                “The man in question is Antivan, blonde, with a tattoo on the side of face. Does that strike a bell, Clara?”

                “That one?” Clara asked with a sigh of relief, her demeanor relaxing immediately, “By the stone, why didn’t you say so before? One mention of that rake and I’dve known you wasn’t looking for no lost husband. Caridan himself would rise from the stone before _that_ one took a wife.”

                Remembering her time in Orzamar, Harlow let out a snort of laughter. “I’d rethink that last bit, if I were you,” she said into her cup as she took another sip of ale. Clara looked at her in confusion, clearly lost to her meaning. “Never mind. Is he here?”

                “Yeah, comes in about twice a week. He’s in the back with Brigeette,” Clara said gesturing to the doorway that led to the bedchambers.

                “Fantastic!” Harlow declared, draining the last of her cup before rising. Clara let out a sound of protestation as the elven woman strode unabashedly towards the door.

                “He’s not alone!” the dwarf called out, trying to dissuade her from her path.

                “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Harlow replied dismissively before stopping to grab the nearest guard and ask which room was the infamous Brigeette’s. After having secured directions she counted off the doors, arriving at one secluded back and into a corner. She could hear muffled noises of passion coming through the door and she suppressed a grin as she barged into the room.

                “So sorry to interrupt,” she said cheerfully as she surveyed the mass of contorted and sweaty limbs, “but I need to borrow the elf for a moment.”

                She watched as Zevran’s head popped up from the mattress, a mischievous grin on his face.

                “Harlow! What brings you to Denerim my delectable friend?” he cried out with happiness.

                “Disentangle yourself from the woman’s charms and I shall tell you,” Harlow replied grinning, pointedly not looking at what had to be some very creative positioning. Did joints really bend that way?

                “Forgive me, sweetling,” Zevran murmured to Brigeette as he gracefully slipped out of bed, taking a sheet to wrap about his hips as he did so. “I promise to return momentarily.”

                Harlow watched in amusement as the elf gracefully sat down on a small stool seated near a dilapidated vanity. She joined him by leaning her rump against the worn wood, her eyes full of delight.

                “How did you know where to find me?” Zevran asked with amusement.

                “It was either here, or at your safe house, and considering I have yet to hear of any noblemen meeting a mysterious end I figured you were indulging in your _other_ favorite past time,” she replied with a shrug. Zevran let out a bark of laughter.

                “Too true, my friend. The assassin business has been rather slow. It is what comes from a nation being united under one ruler, yes?”Too late he realized his error as Harlow’s relaxed stance grew tense and withdrawn. His grin fell from his mouth as he closed his eyes and sighed. “I am sorry, Lo-Lo, truly. I did not think-“

                Harlow cut him off with a wave of her hand, dismissing the unintended hurt.

                “It’s fine, Zev, really. That is why I came to find you, I’ve heard troubling rumors about our _dear_ King,” she said, her voice turning bitter.

                “Oh? And what rumors would those be?”           

                “The kind that require your expertise, my dear assassin. It seems someone is planning to end Alistair’s rein in a most untimely manner.”

                Zevran took in the words, his eyes turning shrewd and calculating as he weighed their meaning. In the end he nodded, his features all business and planning.

                “Have you proof?” he inquired.

                “Nothing solid, but there are too many pieces of information that don’t sit well with me. Have you heard nothing of this from the crows?”

                “My dear friend, I am a dead man to the crows, why should any of their information find its way to my ear?” he stated with a finality.

                “Oh come on, Zev, they most certainly know you are alive. For fuck’s sake Ignacio has seen you walking about, making threatening and lewd comments. Let’s put aside this cloak and dagger crap and face the reality of the situation,” she cried throwing up her hands in exasperation.

                “Be that as it may,” he explained slowly, “they are not in the habit of acknowledging my existence. The notion that I would have any insight into their current contracts is ridiculous.”

                “Fine, I figured it was worth asking. I’ll have to go see Ignacio myself I suppose. But if the crows aren’t a part of this, it leaves me with very little avenues to follow.”

                “The crows are not the only guild of assassins in the word, my sweet warden, but that is a conversation for another time. What do you intend to do while we root out this would be dispatcher?” He asked lightly, testing his friend and one time pupil.

                “I shall do as my dear mentor instructed,” she teased, hitting him on the shoulder, “I shall infiltrate the palace and keep an eye on our dimwitted liege.”

                “Harlow, you are too well known to the nobility to pass as a serving wench in the laundry, it will not work,” he said disapprovingly.

                “Were you not the one who taught me that the best lies have a bit of truth to them?” she countered grinning. “I really do have business that requires my presence at the castle prudent. As warden commander, and arlessa of Amaranthine, I have come to beg for recruits and funds to rebuild what was lost after the recent cluster fuck that the Mother and the Architect dropped on our laps.”

                “It seems you have stories, my friend. Perhaps another time you shall tell me of them, yes? But it seems you have a plan. I shall poke around a bit, see what I can uncover about those…displeased with the bastard king.”

                “We should meet tomorrow evening, compare notes. I have a set of rooms at the palace set aside, come to me there are we can talk,” She said as she rose to leave.

                “How I have longed to hear such an invite to your chamber, my dear friend,” he said seductively as he rose. She tried for a stern countenance but ending up laughing despite herself.

                “Ever the rakish cad, right Zev?” she sighed and motioned back towards the bed and the waiting Brigeette who had witnessed their exchange with heavy lidded eyes. “I’ll leave you to your companion, we shall speak more tomorrow.”

                As she turned to leave, Zevran called out her name causing her to turn back in expectation. She was surprised to find his face serious and concerned.

                “Harlow, whatever you are expecting….Alistair….he is not the same man you left behind. Tread carefully dear one.”

                Harlow swallowed hard and schooled her expression into one of neutrality.

                “Whatever man I expected him to be, he was never that person to begin with. He made that quite clear after the landsmeet,” she said neutrally and turned to go, Zevran’s soft sigh followed her out as she shut the door behind her.   


	2. Chapter 2

The wind and rain had picked up in the short amount of time that Harlow had been inside the pearl. She grumbled as she pulled her cloak closer in a futile effort to keep dry, not that it did much good; within seconds she was soaked through.

                “Well, there goes that set of armor,” she grumbled as she made her way through the muddy streets towards the palace district. It was a long, miserable journey but eventually she found herself standing in entry chamber of the castle, fat drops of water falling from her hands to plop nosily on the stone floor. A nearby servant took in her bedraggled appearance and sneered.

                “Can I help you?” he asked, as if the very thought offended him.

                “Yes,” she answered with just as much disdain, “I have a need to see the King, be a good man and run and fetch him.”

                “The King is indisposed at the moment,” the man replied with disdain, pointedly glancing at her delicate ears, “if you wish to petition for a meeting I suggest you do so in three days time when he holds his public audience.”

                “Why would I return three days from now when I can simply cross the hall from my room to his?” she asked with mock sweetness. The man’s demeanor changed instantly, his bravado gone, replaced with hastily affected obedience.

                “Arlessa, forgive me. I did not recognize you with your hair shorn so short,” he cried out, bowing low. Harlow rolled her eyes as he darted forward to unclasp her cloak.

                “Yes, it seems it’s transformed me entirely,” she replied dryly, “I trust my rooms have been made ready?”

                “Oh yes, Arlessa! We received word of your visit two days ago and all has been taken care of,” he answered brightly as he gestured for her to follow him.

                “Good, please inform his Majesty that I have urgent news for ears alone and to visit me as soon as possible.”

                The man faltered a bit in his steps before continuing to lead Harlow through the maze of hallways and rooms that led to her suite.

                “I do apologize, but the King truly _is_ unavailable at the moment. I could leave a message with his steward conveying the urgency, but you may have to wait some time.”

                Harlow let out a frustrated sigh. The Alistair she knew would never have kept her waiting, so trusting was he in her judgment. If she believed something was of vital importance, _he_ believed it as well. It had filled her with a sense of validation, to know that this man, who was of royal blood, would put his faith and trust in the hands of an elven woman. Having grown up in the alienage, the idea that elves were _less than_ and of no importance had been so ingrained within her that to this day, she found it baffling that she was leading an army of Grey Wardens, men and women who looked up to her and had complete and utter faith in her abilities. The way Alistair had looked at her, as if she were the answer to life’s persistent questions, had gone a long way to easing those painful feelings of inadequacies…but apparently, being crowned king had changed all that.

                “I suppose he really isn’t all that different from any other man,” she whispered sadly, “give him power and he will take full advantage of it.”

                The servant stiffened at her words but made no comment, instead choosing to pretend as if he hadn’t heard her speak. At last he stopped in front of the doors that led to her set of rooms and bowed quickly.

                “I shall leave a message with the King’s steward, my lady. Do you require anything else?”

                “Andraste, yes, a bath and a meal, both of them steaming hot if it’s not too much trouble,” she said, groaning with pleasure at the thought. He bowed once again and departed, leaving her alone in the too quiet space. She couldn’t help but glance at the heavy set of double doors that lay at the far end of the hallway. Alistair’s rooms...they were mere feet from her, but it felt miles long. She could feel the chasm that had sprung up between them that night so long ago pressing down on her, bringing out a myriad of memories, both wonderful and tragic. With a resigned sigh she tore her eyes away from the door and stepped into her suite.

~oOo~ 

Three hours had gone by and Harlow was starting to get annoyed. She was freshly bathed and fed, her stomach fair groaning with the overabundance of food she had gobbled up. Being on the road for the past few months had caused her to forget what anything besides dry venison and squirrel tasted like and when she saw the platters of iced melon, fresh caught sea food, and fluffy bread brought before her, she set into them with a passion.

                But that had been hours ago, and still no word from Alistair’s steward as to when she could expect an audience. She had been running a circuit of pacing and sitting, pacing and sitting for the last half hour, impatiently waiting for a knock at her door. She eventually let out a growl of frustration and decided that she would take matters into her own hands. She took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and smoothed the skirt of her gown over her legs. The dress had been a last minute acknowledgement of the fact that, technically, she was now a member of the nobility, and she should look the part. So she had reluctantly allowed her maid to simper and fawn of her she stuffed herself into the frippery. It was a gown of deep black velvet, embroidered with golden thread along the hem and neckline, a neckline that swooped low in front and even lower in back, revealing the tips of her shoulder blades. As much as she hated to admit, the gown looked wonderful of her, bringing out the creamy quality of her skin, and making her eyes deep fathomless pools. Even though she would never say it aloud, she was quite pleased with the effect, a part of her thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to remind Alistair what he had given up.

                Harlow strode out of her rooms, muttering to herself the whole way.

                “He’s probably just meeting with Eamon,” she reasoned, “surely the Arl would agree that the possibility of a royal assassination trumps whatever political scheme  
the two are concocting.”

                It was true, if the rumors of court politics were to be believed, that Alistair relied heavily on his uncle’s experience to help rule the kingdom. Alistair had been thrown into the role of leader, completely unprepared for what was expected of him. In the end he was the only one who believed it would not come to that, that despite Anora being found complicit with her father’s plots and ceremoniously dethroned, Alistair never once stopped to think that he was the only viable heir at that point. She still remembered the way he had looked at her that day, as if she had betrayed him. And she supposed in a way she had, but she had her own reasons for seeing Alistair crowned King. Reasons that disappeared into nothing more than fanciful day dreams almost immediately. Well, all the reasons but one…she truly did think that given time and a strong hand to guide him he would be a benevolent and just ruler, and it appeared he was well on his way to doing just that.

                Pushing aside ugly memories she came to a stop outside the massive doors and paused, wondering if she should knock. In the end she rapped her fist against the wood sharply, listening closely for an invitation. When none was forth coming she tried again, and pressed her ear to the door. She could hear muffled noises, the sound of something heavy hitting against the wall and a strangled moan of a man. Eyes wide she quickly stepped back, pausing only briefly to slip the set of long daggers she had hidden in her sleeves out and into her waiting hands. With a grunt of determination she kicked at the doors, splintering the wood sharply. Two more thrusts and they gave, swinging open with a protesting groan.

                Harlow leapt into the room, eyes seeking out the enemy, but instead of assassins she found something far more upsetting. Alistair and a very buxom and _very_ naked woman were currently engaged in what Harlow could only describe as enthusiastic sport. At her loud and very noticeable entrance the couple turned to look at her in surprise. Alistair’s gaze locked with hers, his eyes bleary as he tried to focus. She stared back I in astonishment, mouth open and unable to form words. Luckily Alistair saved her the trouble as recognition dawned on him.

                “Harlow?”


	3. Chapter 3

There were no words. None. Language was a foreign and distant concept to Harlow as she stared into Alistair’s confused eyes. She could feel a myriad of emotions flowing through her, running the gamut from pain to amusement to disbelief. Eventually her mind settled on anger and she brought herself up straight and tall, her eyes simmering with rage.

                “Forgive me, your majesty, I did not realize you were _entertaining,”_ she said with icy precision.

                “Oh, well, honest mistake,” he said slurred, still entangled with the curvaceous lass. Harlow narrowed her eyes in understanding.

                “You’re drunk,” she stated accusingly.

                “Right you are!” he declared happily, listing a bit to the side.

                “Ali,” the woman whined nasally, “who is this woman?”

                Harlow’s knuckles turned white as she gripped her weapons tightly, aching fiercely to smack the woman. It was irrational; Alistair was no longer hers to claim, but Maker’s breath! Did he have to go out of his way to find someone so completely unlike her? Someone with soft curves of flesh that would fill out any bodice nicely, with golden hair and summer sky eyes? It made her feel gangly and common by comparison. She felt suddenly ridiculous in the sumptuous gown, like a small child playing at being beautiful.

                “Um this is…the…uh, Arlessa of Amaranthine.” Alistair supplied finally, as if he had to comb the recesses of his mind for her title, never mind that he had bestowed it upon her only a year prior. The woman pouted and wriggled against him, electing a gasp from his throat.

                “No, no,” Harlow declared with bitter politeness, “by all means continue. Clearly this is far more important than anything I would have to offer.”

                A flash of pain, here and gone, crossed Alistair’s face, sobering him slightly. Harlow pretended that she imagined it, choosing to focus on her anger and shock at what was playing out before her. Alistair disentangled himself from the woman’s embrace, his eyes filled with apologies.

                “Give me a moment, Melly,” he murmured, grin flashing on his face, “I need to discuss kingly business with the Arlessa.”

                Melly giggled girlishly, sliding off the bed and grabbing her clothing from a pile on the floor. She crossed to him, hips swaying seductively the whole time. Harlow looked away in disgust as the woman pressed herself against Alistair’s chest and gave him a very thorough kiss.

                “You know where to find me,” she whispered coquettishly into his ear before sauntering past Harlow, tongue thrust out in impertinence. Harlow smiled dangerously in response, saluting Melly with the tip of a dagger. She took great pleasure in watching the girl’s eyes go wide and her feet stumble back in fear. After that it was mere seconds before Melly fled the room, leaving Alistair and Harlow alone.

                “Well,” Alistair supplied lamely shifting from one foot to the other.

                “Could you please put some clothes on?” she hissed before returning her daggers to their hiding place deep within her sleeves.

                “Oh! Right,” he muttered as he began to look around the room for said garments. As he did so Harlow fixed her eyes on the wallpaper, determined not to let her eyes linger on the smooth planes of muscle that made up his chest, or the way the candlelight played across his skin. It was damned hard to do, but somehow she managed, fixing her anger like a talisman to pray over.

                After a few moments of rummage Alistair managed to succeed in finding his breeches and coughed softly to let her know it was safe to face him.

                “Harlow,” the way he said her name made her shudder, it was completely neutral, void of any emotion. “To what do I owe the late night visit?”

                She regarded him with shrewd eyes, mind still lingering over Melly and the condition she had found them in.

                “Where exactly _did_ you find her?” she asked abruptly, a masochistic need to know every detail suddenly filling her. Alistair blinked at her, confused by the sudden change in topic. “She said you know where to find her, I’m just curious as to where that is? A brothel perhaps? Or, I’m sorry, is she noble? Not that there’s really much difference, at least the whores at the pearl are honest about their trade.”

                “Not that it is any of your business,” he said, his voice growing low with outrage, “but she’s a laundress here in the castle.”

                Harlow shook her head in amazement; it was all becoming too much. All the reasons Alistair had refused her that night so long ago, all the insulting offers he had put forth, and she stumbles upon him in bed a servant? If was the final painful emotional slap and she lost control.

                “I guess you truly are Calin’s son,” she spat, watching him flinch as if she’d struck him, “bedding down with the serving girls, passing your nights in drink and women, it all rings far too familiar. Have you sired any bastards yet, Alistair? Or have you yet to reach that part in your reign?”

                She had gone too far, and she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Alistair’s jaw hardened and his eyes took on a sharp edge. He crossed the distance between them swiftly, glaring down at her the whole while.

                “I am your King, Arlessa, not some recruit that you can slap around to vent your anger. You will treat me with the respect due your lord and master, is that clear?” he growled out, hands clenched into fists at his side.

                “There is no need to remind me, _your Majesty_ , I am reminded of it nearly every day,” she whispered venomously, her eyes watering up despite her efforts to remain impassive. Alistair caught the hidden meaning of her words and swallowed hard before turning away, putting a little distance between the two.

                “Why are you here, Harlow?” he asked softly.

                “There are a myriad of reasons for my visit,” she replied formally, “both as the Arlessa and the Warden Commander. And there is a far more serious matter that brings me here in quite a different role.”

                “And none of that could have waited until morning?” he asked, turning around to face her, arms crossed as he leaned against the bed post.

                “Believe me, I am sorely regretting my impatience,” she muttered, folding her arms against her chest and looking away.

                “Why do you even, care Lo?” he asked with exasperation. She whipped her head around, shocked to hear her nickname on his lips. “If memory serves, you were the one who put me in this position. You were the one who ended what we have.”

                “ _I_ put you in this position?” she asked incredulously, “If you’re looking to place blame, the death of our….relationship is something that lies solely at your feet.”

                “I offered you everything I had!” he roared in anger, “Damn you lo-lo, I tried. When the landsmeet named me king, I tried my damndest to keep you in my life.”

                Silence filled the space between them, the only sound the cracking and spitting of logs in the fireplace. Harlow stared at him hard, pain crashing through her body. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head, the barest of movements.

                “That’s the worst lie you’ve ever told me,” she whispered. Alistair looked at her in shock, his shoulders hunching inwards in shame.

                “That’s not true,” he reasoned, “ I told you, if I was to be king there would be no way I could marry you, so I thought, perhaps, that if you became-“

                “Your mistress!” she cried and she strode near him, their faces mere inches apart, “your dirty little secret that you hid away from view. If you loved me at all you never would have suggested such a thing!”

                He gripped her shoulders tightly, bringing her even closer to him, his breath hot on her skin. She could smell the brandy on him, the way it mingled with the woodsy smell that always seemed to cling to his flesh, a scent that had always been uniquely Alistair.

                “Then why did you make me King?” he cried, his eyes searching hers for answers. Unseen electricity crackled between them, their breath coming in rapid gasps. Had they been farther apart, Harlow could have explained, giving voice to her day dreams and wishes that she never had a chance to see fulfilled those many months ago, but the proximity with which they stood made rendered her speech useless. She could feel the line of his body, so near to hers, like a pulse of fire playing along her skin. So tempting to close the gap, the press against him.

                She knew the moment when it had become too much, watched Alistair’s eyes flick down to take in her heart shaped lips. She was unsure as to what would have transpired had she not caught movement out of the corner of her eye and discerned just in time what was about to happen. Eyes wide she gripped Alistair by the shoulders and cried “Look out!”

                She just barely managed to throw her weight into the man, toppling them both onto the bed as a small dagger whizzed by overhead, lodging its self deep within the wall behind them. Harlow glanced up to find a figure crouched within an open window too their right. It was an elf, male, all lithe muscle and grace, another dagger poised and ready in his hand. Acting quickly Harlow wrapped her arms about Alistair and rolled them both off the bed and on to the floor. Using what precious seconds she had available, she hiked the skirt of her gown up past her thigh, revealing a leather garter armed with throwing knives. Alistair became temporarily distracted by the sudden exposure of her flesh.

                “Focus!” she hissed as she once more unsheathed the daggers from her arms, shoving them into Alistair’s arms. “Here, you take these. I hope you remember how to use them.” Alistair grinned at her, for a moment looking every inch the man she remember, a boyish youth who loved the thrill of battle. Despite herself she grinned back before deftly taking two of her knives in hand. After silently counting down from three, the two of them took a deep breath and leapt up to meet their adversary.

                 It was as if time had not separated them, so quickly they fell into a routine. It was as if Alistair knew exactly where she would be, knew when to duck as she released her knives in succession. When she had exhausted her supply, and still the assassin stood before them, pressing them both with a wicked looking long sword, Harlow was unsurprised to find Alistair press one of his daggers into her palm. Despite what lay between them, they knew each other so well that every movement of the deadly dance was imprinted in their bones, and they danced the steps unthinkingly.

                It was over in a manner of minutes, Harlow dropping low to cut at the elf’s hamstrings, whilst Alistair aimed high, managing to slide his blade into the gap between shoulder and chest. The two gazed dispassionately down at the man as a bloody forth bubbled to his lips and the light slowly seeped from his eyes. Minutes passed without sound, both breathing hard and reveling in the afterglow of battle. 

                Harlow eventually turned her head to face Alistair, a wry smile on her lips despite the tumult of emotions inside her.

                “ _That_ is why I came, Alistair. It seems you have a bounty on your head.”

                “Huh?” was all the mighty King of Ferelden could muster.


	4. Chapter 4

                An hour later the room was a hornet’s nest of activity. Guards milled about, barking orders to servants, and visiting nobles crowded the door way, trying to get a peek at what had transpired in the King’s bedchamber. Alistair, now fully clothed, ignored it all, so focused on his rebelling stomach that everything else seemed unimportant. Harlow watched him, an evil sort of satisfaction filling her. The skirmish had sobered him up, but brought with it a wicked hangover that was now waging its own sort of battle against the King.

                “Are all these people really necessary?” she asked him after a moment, bending down to murmur in his ear. He flinched away from her with a moan.

                “Please don’t shout,” he whimpered, head cradled in his hands.

                “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said with considerably more volume than was necessary, grinning as he shot her glare from between his fingers, “but the point remains. You need to clear some of these people out.” Alistair opened his mouth to give her a scathing retort but was interrupted by Arl Eamon barging into the room.

                “By the Maker!” the older man breathed, “What is going on?”

                “Eamon,” Harlow said cheerfully, motioning for him to join her, “how good it is to see you.”

                “Harlow?” he replied, squinting, unsure if it was really here. She sighed and lifted a hand to her hair.

                “Yes, yes, my hair, it’s quite the change, didn’t recognize me blah blah blah,” she rattled off dryly, eyes rolling.

                “Indeed it is, but it quite suits you!” Eamon replied, striding forward to take her hand in his, planting a gentlemanly kiss atop it. Harlow smiled, ready to inquire as to the Arl’s health when a grumpy muttering interrupted her.

                “If you two are quite done exchanging pleasantries could we _please_ deal with the matter of the dead assassin on the floor?”

                Harlow spared Alistair a glare as Eamon’s eyes widened, noticing for the first time the corpse that lay not four feet from them.

                “Assassin? Your majesty! Are you hurt?”

                “Unless you count this stampede of brontos in my head as ‘hurt,’ no, I’m just peachy,” he grumped, eyes squeezed tight. Eamon raised an eyebrow at Harlow, a silent request for confirmation of Alistair’s words.

                “He’s suffering the aftereffects of _quite_ an entertaining evening, but that is all. The king remains unharmed,” she supplied with false politeness, her eyes clearly stating that Alistair’s behavior this evening was something they would be discussing _very soon._ Eamon coughed uncomfortably and turned his attention back to the dead man. It was then that he noticed the sheer number of people in the room.

                “Alistair, what are all these people doing in here?” he asked baffled. Harlow let a smug, triumphant look cross her face as Alistair growled in displeasure.

                “Bloody nug bits…fine,” he muttered before straightening up and declaring loudly, “All of you! Out! Leave us and take that mess with you.” He then sunk back down into his hands, once again ignoring everyone around him. The guards snapped into action, directing onlookers out and away from the rooms. Harlow watched a pair of them hoist the corpse up into the air and she stepped forward, a hand out in protest.

                “No! Leave it,” she cried. The guards looked at her warily, clearly wondering what use an elven woman would have with a dead body. “Leave it, and send a mage to preserve it. I want him to be recognizable. Do you understand me?” The guards shifted, unsure as to who exactly she was and if her orders were to be obeyed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eamon nod slightly, a silent backing of her desires. The two men shrugged, dumped the body on the floor and filed out behind their comrades. A moment later the door shut, leaving the trio is sudden quiet.

                “What is the meaning of this?” Eamon asked finally, turning to Harlow for answers having deduced that the King would be of very little use under the present circumstances.

                “I apologize, Eamon, I had hoped to make a full report before any attempts on his life were made, but _someone_ was too busy to grant me an audience,” she said pointedly, arms crossed.

                “Forgive me for having a bit of fun, I didn’t realize being King meant that I would have to give up such things,” Alistair muttered darkly from behind his hands.

                “Oh stop it, both of you!” Eamon snapped, his eyes narrowed, “we are all aware of the resentment you bear for each other but there is a slightly more pressing matter at hand.”

                Harlow blushed in shame, realizing just how petty and petulant she sounded. She knew returning to Denerim and Alistair would not be easy, indeed it would be painful, but she did not expect for such a venomous side of her personality to come to the surface. A small, distant part of her knew she was only acting this way in an effort to mask her pain, but it did not make her feel any better.

                “You’re right, Eamon, I apologize,” she sighed before straightening her shoulders and explaining the dire news. “I’m afraid someone has placed a bounty on the King’s head. Tonight was one such assassination attempt. Luck favored us this time, but this surely will not be the last such attack.”

                Eamon absorbed the words quietly, turning over the possibility in his mind. Eventually he nodded, regarding her with questioning eyes.

                “And this is why you have returned to Denerim?” he stated, the question merely a formality.

                “The most vital reason, yes. There are others, ones that will be the public excuse for my presence, but this is the true explanation for my return.”

                “You mean you didn’t just return to yell at me? Fantastic,” Alistair stated dryly as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

                “Consider it a pleasant bonus,” she said sweetly, her eyes dull and unfeeling. He leveled a look at her in response, a look so intense and focused that her breath caught. There was anger there, simmering on the surface, but also accusation, pain, and some other dangerous, unnamed emotion. It brought the memory of them standing so close, his eyes fixed on her lips, roaring back to her mind and she looked away, hunching in on herself.

                “I am assuming you have proof of this plot?” Eamon asked, oblivious to what passed between her and Alistair.

                “Not any that would stand up to scrutiny, no. But there are far too many coincidences to ignore. And I do think a dead assassin in the King’s bedroom lends credence to my tale,” she replied pointedly. The Arl opened his mouth to press her further but Alistair’s stomach chose that precise moment to rebel and he ran to the window, arriving just in time before becoming violently ill.

                “The rest can wait until morning,” Harlow replied hurriedly, “his majesty is in no condition to discuss this at the moment. For now I suggest placing guards at every door and window, at least for the remainder of the evening until we come up with a plan.”

                “Agreed,” Eamon said warily as he inched away from the puking monarch. He turned to Harlow, his arm held out in offering, “may I escort you to your room, Arlessa?”

                She nodded and accepted, the two of them hurrying out of the room to escape the sounds of moans and retching. Eamon paused for a moment beside the door, ordering a nearby guard to station a watch around the king. It was quickly done and the two began the short stroll to her rooms. When they had arrived at her door, Eamon made to bid her goodnight but she cut him off with a raised hand.

                “What is going on here, Eamon?” she demanded. The Arl looked at her uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other.

                “I do not know what you mean, Arlessa,” he said softly, feigning ignorance.

                “Nugshit!” she hissed, “you know _exactly_ what I mean. The mistress, the drinking? How long has he been behaving this way?”

                “I don’t rightly see that it is any of your business, Harlow,” Eamon said stiffly, drawing himself up straight and tall.

                “Do not forget that I put him on that throne, Eamon, _at your behest_. You knew what would become of us if I did, and still you asked me. So don’t try to stonewall me now, I am not some simpering lordling begging favor from the crown. Answer me.”

                “Why _did_ you put him on the throne then?” Eamon shot back, “You made his bed for him, Arlessa, do you cry now that he does not lie in it alone?”

                “I put him there because I _thought_ he would be a good king,” she said softly, “someone who cared for the land and the people, who could see the big picture and not just the path to power.”

                Eamon’s eyes softened at her words and he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She looked at him with questioning eyes, unsure of the answer she was about to seek.

                “I thought he was made of stronger stuff than his father and brother…but it seems they are made from the same mold. Am I wrong, Eamon? Or is Alistair no better than those who came before him?”

                The Arl hesitated, unsure as to how to temper his words. In the end he sighed, deciding she deserved no more than the truth.

                “At one time, he might have been,” he said softly, “in the beginning he was dedicated, eager to learn, and very involved…but over time…he began to focus on the pleasures that are afforded a king rather than his duties.”

                “When?” she wondered, “When did he become this?”

                “I’m not sure I should say, Harlow,” Eamon said, refusing to meet her eyes. She stared at him in confusion, her mind taking a moment to catch the meaning of his words. Realization dawned on her and she felt herself withdraw into numbness.

                “When I left,” she murmured, “when I left to oversee Amaranthine.” She began nodding rapidly, as if accepting the information would make it easier to bear.

                “When confronted about his behavior, he would say, ‘it’s what she taught me, so blame her if you’re so damn concerned.’ We still aren’t quite sure what he meant by it.”

                Oh, but Harlow did. She knew very well. Her face blanched at the memory, so close in her mind. Standing outside Goldanna’s house, she had railed at him for his naiveté, teaching him the hard lesson that so many in the world are only out for themselves. He had been hurt by her words, but after thinking upon them, reluctantly agreed with her. Declaring in triumph that from now on he would be thinking more about what he wanted, as opposed to what others desired. She had smiled warmly at the time, thinking that she was watching him take one more step towards the man he was destined to be….now the words made her feel sick, as if he had taken her lesson and twisted it into something selfish and wrong.  

                “No one blames you, my dear,” Eamon said gently, bring her back to the present, “you cannot be expected to shoulder a foolish man’s actions.”

                “Why not?” she asked defensively, shrugging off the Arl’s arm. “Why should I not be blamed? I’m the one that killed him after all.”

                Eamon  
took a step back in shock and confusion.               

                “Harlow-“

                “It’s true Eamon,” she said, voice dull and empty of compassion, “I killed Alistair the minute I gave him that crown…and I accepted it knowing the king was needed far more than the man. But it seems that by killing one man, I also killed the king he should have been.”

                Eamon said nothing, unable to deny the truth in her words. Harlow turned slowly to unlock her door, pausing at the threshold.

                “Fix this, Eamon, if not for Alistair’s sake, then for Ferelden’s.”

                She didn’t wait for a reply before gently shutting the door behind her.

 


	5. Chapter 5

In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had yet to show its head, the rain and wind had ceased its attack on the town of Denerim. Fog crept through the alleyways, twining through buildings and stalls like a specter, lovingly caressing stone and wood in an eerie embrace. No one was about, save a lone figure, creeping through the street silently, wrapped in shadows like a cloak. The figure moved fluidly through alley ways and side streets, making hardly a sound, coming to a stop before a small window located at the back of the Gnawed Noble Tavern. Had anyone been around to see it, they would have noticed a dangerous flash of white cut through the darkness as the figure smiled malevolently.

 

~oOo~

 

                His training was far to ingrained in him for the soft sound of a latch lifting not to stir him from slumber. Ignacio shot straight up in bed, eyes flicking about the modest room, searching for signs of an intruder. Candlelight played along the walls, casting strange shadows and shapes to snake along the floor. Nothing seemed to be amiss, nothing except the cool breeze floating through the open window. Ignacio frowned and silently pulled a dagger from beneath his pillow, cautiously sliding off the bed to investigate. Eyes ever wary, he slowly made his way to the open pane. Upon further inspection he discovered the latch bent, as if forced open. Someone had most definitely tried to break into his room. But for what purpose? He sensed movement behind him, the sudden dancing of the candlelight on the walls tipping him off to the intruder’s presence. He tensed and whirled about; striking out blindly, but his dagger only met air.

                Breathing hard he shifted to and fro, seeking his opponent and finding nothing. Just as he was about to turn his attention back to the broken latch, he felt a hand snake through his hair, wrenching his head back painfully, and the kiss of steel press into his neck.

                “Ignacio,” a familiar and amused voice purred next to his ear, “I expected better of a Crow.”

                Ignacio stiffened in surprise, but kept his voice light, as was his wont to do when dealing with such interactions. “Warden, I did not think to see you again.”

                “I did not think you would be so foolish as to give me a reason to.”

                His captor released him harshly, shoving him into the wall. He hastily spun around, only to be greeted with the tip of a dagger pointed squarely over his heart. He raised an eyebrow in amusement as dropped his dagger and studied the woman across from him. The last time he had seen Harlow Tabris had been well over two years ago. Her appearance had changed, that much was obvious, and she bore the faint remnants of a few new scars; but that proud bearing, the steel veneer that covered a much more temperate heart, _that_ all remained the same.

                “How can the Crows be of service, my friend?” He asked conversationally, as if a deadly weapon were not pointed at him.

                “What makes you think we are friends?” she wondered idly, untroubled by his supposed lack of concern.

                “Have we not always been friendly? Has that not been the nature of our game from the beginning?” Ignacio countered with a shrug, eyes sparkling.

                “I am not the noviate I was two years ago, Ignacio, and I will not go ‘round in circles with you, old man,” she threatened darkly, pressing the tip of her blade harder against his chest. He could feel it slip through the brocade, scratching his skin sharply beneath.

                “Of that much, it is apparent. Zevran has taught you well.”

                “Oh?” she asked with a twitch of her lips, “You are acknowledging his existence now?”

                “Even the dead have secrets, Warden, who I am to begrudge them that, or who chooses to listen?” he said evasively. She scowled in response, her patience fraying. “Perhaps our conversation will go more to your liking if you tell me why you have visited me?”

                “Have any interesting contracts passed through your hands of late, Ignacio?” she asked accusingly. He chuckled softly, amazed at her bluntness.

                “If you were simply looking for work there are far simpler ways of doing so.”

                He never even saw her move, her blade striking out fast, leaving a sharp red line against his cheek.

                “I’m not looking for work, you patronizing ass, I’m looking for information, now answer the question!”

                He brought his hand up, gently fingering the wound, his fingers came away red, the blood gleaming in the candlelight. “A number of contracts have passed through my hands, perhaps if you narrowed it down?”

                “This one would have caught your interest…a target of great political and monetary worth. A man whose death would throw the nation into chaos. Ring any bells, Ignacio?”

                It was then he laughed fully, letting the sound spill out of his mouth with a richness that belied the situation. He neatly sidestepped out of her blades reach, knowing that if she intended to kill him, she would have done so by now. Harlow watched him warily as he strode to the washbasin, dipping a rag into the cool water and raising it to his face to dab at the blood.

                “It was only a matter of time,” he chuckled, “you should have realized this, my friend. Kings never rest comfortably on their thrones. It is what keeps the Crows and others like us in business; I am only amazed it took two years for the first attempt to happen.”

                “Then you admit that the contract belongs to the crows?” she said tightly, taking a menacing step towards him.

                “If it does, I am unaware of such a thing. The order did not pass through my hands, and therefore did not reach any of my agents’ ears. If the crows are behind it, it is a sect I am unfamiliar with,” he said pragmatically, wincing as he gently dabbed at the cut. When she said nothing he eyed her with a knowing grin. “I take it some well meaning assassin has already tried to dispatch the boy?”

                “Yes, even now his blood is being scrubbed from the floors of the palace,” Harlow replied coolly. After a pause an idea flashed through her eyes and she quickly asked him, “Would you be able to recognize him if he is a Crow?”

                He thought about his answer, letting her squirm a little in payment for the way she had snuck into his room. In the end he nodded almost imperceptibly.

                “Yes, all members bear a mark, a brand; the location and design known only to other Crows. If you were so inclined, I could-“

                Harlow cut him off with a raised hand, eyes narrowed. “If you think I am foolish enough to bring a master of the crows within the palace walls you must not hold me in very high regard.”

                “Oh, warden, I hold you in the highest regard. The offer still stands, you know? Should you tire of the life of a noblewomen, the Crows would most dearly welcome someone of your unique talents.”

                “As flattered as I am, I’ll pass. And I do not need your help in identifying the man sent after Alistair,” she said sheathing her dagger into a leather belt low worn on her hips. She crossed the room, heading for the window, one eye on him the whole time. As she deftly scaled the wall, swinging one leg over the sill he called out to her, causing her to pause and regard him with impatient eyes.

                “And just who _do_ you intend to bring within the palace walls to help with your conundrum?” he asked lightly. She smiled in response, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, giving her a feral quality.

                “A ghost,” came her reply before she slipped out into the shadows. When he crossed to the window to trace her progress, Harlow Tabris was nowhere to be found.


	6. Chapter 6

  **A/N: Exposition kicks my ass, but I needed to get alot of this out to keep the story progressing....**

                The next morning dawned cold and clear, the sun sparkling off still wet rooftops, causing the whole city to appear as if it were coated in diamonds. Harlow stared out her window enjoying the sight, a soft smile on her lips. In all of her turmoil she had forgotten that Denerim had a sort of stark beauty, one that could still take her breath away. The sound of birds chirping on a nearby tree and the scent of honeysuckle wafting on the morning breeze caused her to sigh in contentment, and she allowed herself this one moment of joy to lull in her to a trance.

                “I thought I would never that again,” a voice murmured behind her. She gasped and turned around to find Alistair standing some paces away. He appeared to be in far better health than he had the night before; his warm eyes clear and thoughtful, his face newly shaved, revealing the strong line of his jaw.

                “Your smile, I mean. A real one” he offered in explanation. Harlow swallowed her nerves, heart still beating hard at the sudden surprise.

                “Good morning, your majesty, how can I be of service?” she said politely, dipping into a low curtsey. She watched as his eyes hardened, jaw tight.

                “Good morning, _Arlessa_ ,” he said pointedly. Harlow sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose, hoping to ease the growing tightness within her.

                “Alistair,” she whispered wearily, “must it be this way?”

                He looked at her in shock, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a response.

                “I am not asking for anything from you,” she hurried to explain, “I have no illusions on that front. Despite whatever…hopes I may have harbored about a future you and I could have had, I realize now that you view things differently, so do not think that I am after _that_.”

                “And what hopes were those?” He asked softly, no trace of mocking in his voice, only curiosity. But that was dangerous territory, and of the past, and she had no desire to voice such things now, not when they only had the power to hurt. So instead she neatly sidestepped the question and soldiered on, stepping away to gather the reports that lay strewn across her desk.

                “What I am asking for is that we put aside this…this _vileness_ that we seem to regard each other with and try our best to maintain a civil, if not cordial relationship. Is that acceptable to you?”

                She awaited his answer, face impassive, but her breath stuck in her throat and her hands shook. He said nothing, simply regarding her with caged eyes. There was a time when she could have looked at Alistair and known every thought flowing through his head, but time and distance had changed that and she no longer recognized his tells. The loss of such knowledge hit her unexpectedly and her eyes fluttered closed as she tried to remain composed.

                “You know this is not easy for me,” she stated plainly, “but I hope that you can look back on all that we’ve been through and do me this small favor. Please, Alistair, please just….try.”

                She waited, and when no answer was forthcoming she let out a weary sigh and began to leave the room, head held high, determined not to let him see how very much she was hurting. When she had reached the threshold he finally spoke, stopping her in her tracks.

                “It is not easy for me, either, Harlow,” he muttered, turning to face her, palms held outward in surrender, “there is so much I carry with me, so much of it tied up with the memory of you, and not all of it good. But, for the sake of those poor souls who have to live with us while we figure this mess out, then yes, I can try.”

                Harlow let out a breath she was unaware she was carrying and nodded slightly in acknowledgment. A wry smile tugged at Alistair’s lips, and just like that he seemed more approachable, more the man she had known. The effect was not complete, and she was not fooled, but for now, it was enough to loosen something inside her.

                “Well then” she said politely, “shall we seek out Eamon and start working on keeping you alive?”

                Alistair chuckled softly and motioned for her to lead the way. After she had closed the door, he fell into step beside her, the two walking in companionable silence. When they had reached the great hall, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. She turned to him expectantly, finding a quizzical look had over taken him.

                “You said there were other reasons you came back,” she stated simply. Harlow shook her head in confusion, not following his train of thought. “Last night, you said that my imminent demise was not the only excuse for your return. That there was a ‘public’ pretense for your presence. What is it?”

                Realization dawned on her and she quickly glanced about, searching for anyone nearby who could listen in. They appeared to be alone in the great hall, save for some servants beating the large banners that hung from the rafters with heavy wooden poles; clouds of dust rising up to dance with the sunlight. Satisfied that their exchange would not be overheard and cause undue panic, she stepped closer to him and lowered her voice.

                “You know that the darkspawn attacked Amaranthine, right?” she asked. He nodded dismissively, the news not unknown to him, “It is a long story, one that would take far longer to explain than we have time for. The important thing to take away from it, however, is that the darkspawn are… _evolving_.”

                Alistair’s eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step back, as if putting distance between them would erase her words. She looked at him with understanding, remembering how sick she had felt the first time she had encountered a disciple, hearing speech come from those hideous lips.

                “What do you mean, _evolving_? I’m assuming you’re not referring to gills or webbed feet,” he whispered, mindful of other people in the room.

                “Trust me, gills and webbed feet wouldn’t be half as terrifying,” she muttered, “They talk, Alistair. They use words, form sentences, the whole bit. They have come into a new existence…they are separated from the call of the old gods.”

                Alistair stared at her for a moment before cursing passionately and running his hands through his hair. “It’s too much to hope that you’re joking?” he asked wryly, knowing the answer already.

                “It’s all in this report,” she replied, handing him a bundle of papers tied off with a gray ribbon. He took the stack and eyed them warily, as if she had handed him a deadly reptile instead of information.

                “We don’t have time to discuss this now,” he said, his voice pragmatic, “but we _will_ speak of this later.”

                She nodded in agreement and the two continued their journey through the castle, each of them brooding silently over the disconcerting turn of events. Harlow had a leg up on Alistair in that she had spent the past year or so dealing with the fallout of the Architect’s mad plan. The at one time sharp and horrifying idea of intelligent darkspawn had faded into sort of a throbbing acceptance; just one more creature she’d have to battle. Alistair had the information for all of five minutes, and he had yet to even encounter one of the disciples. Maker only knew how he was handling it. She sighed wearily, already dreading the moment when he finished her report. Harlow was unsure as to whether he would approve of her decisions…hell, she barely approved of her decisions, but she was unsure as to whether Alistair would look at them with the eye of a king, or the eye of a Grey Warden.

                She pushed the unwelcome thoughts out of her head as they arrived at their destination. Alistair swung the heavy doors open, the hinges protesting loudly. He motioned for Harlow to step inside, following close behind and coming to an abrupt stop when he took in his surroundings.

                “There’s a dead body on the table. Why is there a dead body on the table?!” He cried pointing furiously at the corpse. Harlow rolled her eyes and took one of the chairs neatly arranged around the aforementioned table.

                “Don’t worry, Alistair, it won’t bite,” she replied drolly as she began to rifle through her stack of reports.

                “I’m not worried about it biting. Maker’s breath we eat off that! That’s just…unsanitary,” he said with a shudder, still hovering in the doorway.

                “You eat off dead bodies?” A lightly accented voice asked from the doorway. Harlow’s face brightened at the familiar sound and she turned to face the bearer.

                “Leliana!” she cried in pleasure, rising to her feet. The bard smiled softly in her quiet, unassuming way and strode forward to embrace her old friend.

                “My dear, dear friend, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you!” she lilted, pulling back to regard the elf with warm eyes. “Your hair! It’s lovely, it quite suits you, you know? Brings out the delicate structure of your cheeks. Don’t you agree, Alistair?”

                Alistair coughed uncomfortably and Harlow looked away, both muttering nonsense in an effort to change the subject. Leliana looked at them both in confusion before squeezing Harlow’s hands and sitting down.

“Why are you here, Leliana?” Harlow asked quickly, ready to switch subjects, “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but I thought you had returned to Orlais,”

“She did,” Alistair said smugly, “at the King’s behest.”

                Harlow looked at Leliana speculatively, wondering exactly what that meant. The bard smiled shyly, her grey eyes shining.

                “Alistair sent me to my homeland to act as an ambassador,” she explained.

                “And a spy?” Harlow added, with a knowing look. Leliana shrugged noncommittally, but her face splitting grin betrayed her.

                “The Orlesian’s have become a thorn in my tender side as of late. Sending Lei in as my eyes and ears was a rather brilliant idea of mine, if I don’t say so myself,” Alistair declared happily. Harlow nodded in wonder, thinking it a wise decision, surprised at Alistair having the foresight to think of it. The king shot her a bemused look, clearly pleased with himself and kicked his heels up on the table. When his boot brushed that of the dead man’s he remembered his surroundings and quickly lowered his legs with a squeak.

                “Well, what do think? Is Orlais behind the assassination attempts?” Harlow asked, hiding her grin with a cough.

                “I do not think so, no,” Leliana answered slowly, “It is true that that the Empress and her court are… _displeased_ with Alistair’s reign, having expected far more upheaval from the circumstances in which he was crowned. They were surprised how quickly the country rallied behind their new leader. He is quite loved by the populace; the commoners adore him.”

                Alistair preened, appearing every inch the cocky nobleman. Harlow frowned, displeased with this new side of him. Not that she wasn’t happy to hear that his subjects were loyal; she was more concerned by his attitude.

                “Why does this discount Orlais as a suspect?” Harlow inquired, tearing her eyes from the king’s less than humble attitude.

                “It is far easier to invade a country when the land is already torn apart by civil war and discontent,” Leliana explained, “and far less easy when the citizens are united behind a monarch. Were Alistair to die at Orlesian hands, he would rise to the level of Martyr, a heroic figure for the country to rally around. The Empress deemed it far too risky a chance to take. She all too well remembers the stories of the last time her nation sought to end the Theirin line.”

                Harlow nodded, satisfied in Leliana’s explanation. She had never really considered Orlais a true suspect. From all the information she had gathered, this felt far more personal than mere political gain. She opened her mouth to offer up what little information she had when Eamon strode into the room, flanked by two guards who took up stations at the door.

                “My apologies,” Eamon muttered before coming to stand behind Alistair, “There was a…disturbance that needed to be dealt with. I hope I have not missed too much.”

                Harlow looked at the Arl, who was trying very hard not meet her gaze. Whatever the “disturbance” was she had a feeling she was not going to be pleased when she found out. And she would find out, there were far too many troubling events happening in the castle for her to walk about in blind ignorance. But the matter would have to wait, at least for a few hours.

                “Not at all, we were just ruling out Orlais as the unseen enemy,” Harlow replied diplomatically before turning to the corpse on the table. “Which still leaves the question as to who hired this man, and why.”

                Before anyone could offer an opinion Zevran strode into the room, his leather armor speckled with blood and a grim look on his face.

                “I believe I can help with that,” he said gravely. Alistair shot to his feet, murder in his eyes.

                “What is _he_ doing here?” he growled, fists clenched to his sides.

                “I invited him to join us, Alistair,” Harlow explained wearily, wishing she had taken the time to ease him into the idea of Zevran’s assistance. The king pinned her with a malicious glare, pain flashing beneath his anger.

                “Of course you did,” he said venomously, “you have the habit of inviting him to join you in quite a few capacities, don’t you?”

                Harlow staggered back as if he had struck her. Eamon looked between the two confused, Leliana merely looked pained, and she heard Zev make a threatening growl in Alistair’s direction. She ignored them all, eyes fixed in horror on her ex lover.

                “How do you know about that?” she whispered.

                “Despite what you may think of me, Harlow, I am not quite the idiot you paint me to be.”

                Harlow closed her eyes and sighed, feeling regret settle into the pit of her stomach. Whatever little amount of peace they had struck between them crumbled as she opened her eyes to meet Alistair’s accusing glare.

                He knew about Redcliffe…about her and Zevran.


	7. Chapter 7

One would think that silence is something intangible, something that is abstract and merely a state of being. It is not so. Silence is very much alive; a living being that shapes and moves to suit its environment. It can be comforting, as soothing as a favorite blanket, or heavy, demanding. Such is the nature of silence. At the moment, it cut through the room, deadly as a blade, leaving old wounds open and raw before it settled around the occupants with a malevolent caress.

                Harlow couldn’t look away from Alistair’s eyes. She could feel the pain stretched tight between them, as if they were bound by a cord of their own making. Memories of that night came rushing back: Morrigan’s dark proposal, Alistair’s acceptance, and Harlow’s solace in unexpected arms. It hit her all at once, and as she stood under the weight of that accusing gaze, she felt her guilt wash away, replaced by righteous anger.

                “Your majesty,” Eamon murmured, seeking to take the force of the king’s gaze off Harlow. Alistair didn’t even register the words, so focused was he on her face. “Alistair!”

                He slowly turned his head in response, regarding Eamon with the same expression of rage. The Arl blanched but stood his ground and kept his voice even and level. “Obviously the Arlessa and you have a private matter to discuss, but at the moment the threat to your life takes precedence, please set aside your anger and focus on the issue at hand.”

                Seconds ticked by before Alistair’s shoulders sagged in agreement, and he gave a curt nod. Eamon visibly relaxed, relieved at having diffused the tension. Everyone shifted about uncomfortably, returning to their seats and pretending the outburst had not happened. Zevran strode to Leliana, giving the bard a quick peck on the cheek before murmuring a flirtatious and foreign phrase in her ear. She blushed and swatted at him playfully, grinning the whole while. He smiled back before fixing his attention on a still shaken Harlow, a concerned look on his face questioning her well being. She shrugged in response and allowed the Antivan to gather in her into a comforting embrace. Harlow realized her mistake too late as she caught Alistair staring daggers at the display. Zevran, oblivious to it all, pulled back to rest his forehead against hers.

                “I have the answers you seek, _mi cara_ ,” he whispered, “but you will not like them.”

                “Then it will fit nicely into the rest of my day,” she joked half heartedly. When Zev did not join her in her mirth she sighed and moved away from him, focusing her attention on the corpse that lay silent on the table. “Do you recognize him? Is he a crow?”

                Zevran studied the man, no recognition passing over his features. He grunted in thought before pulling a small blade from his left boot. Before anyone could protest, he sliced the blade along the man’s breeches, cutting a deep line. The fabric parted with a sigh, revealing the slightly purple pallor of the corpse’s skin. Leliana looked away in disgust, her features wrinkling as if the whole business offended her. Harlow stepped closer, watching with interest as the Ativan gently inspected the skin of the corpse, his fingers probing behind the knee joint, seeking. After a moment Zevran shook his head and stepped away from the body.

                “He is not one of us,” he said simply, sheathing the knife once more into the depths of his boot.

                “Point to Ignacio for telling the truth, I suppose,” Harlow muttered offhandedly as she stepped back from the dead man. “You said you had answers? Please enlighten us, and start with why you are covered in blood.”

                “First I need assurances that our Alistair won’t lock me in chains,” Zevran replied, leaning against the table, a guarded look on his face, “as fun as that may be, I do not relish the idea.”

                Alistair leapt at the man, teeth clenched. It was only Leliana and Harlow’s hands that held him back.

                “Alistair, stop!” the bard pleaded, her muscles straining against his fury. Harlow dug she shoulder against his chest as she felt her feet give way, allowing Alistair to surge further towards Zevran. In the end Harlow knew it was useless, he was twice their size, and he would succeed in reaching the elf and beating him bloody. So she did the only thing that was left to her; she stepped back, cocked her fist, and leveled a punch at his jaw. Alistair hadn’t been expecting it, and that was the only reason it worked, he didn’t have the proper footing, nor was he braced to take the hit, and down he went. Harlow cradled her aching hand against her chest and loomed over him. He glared up at her and wiggled his lower jaw back and forth, testing for breaks.

                “You just hit your king,” he said dangerously.

                “Did I? Or did I hit a spoiled little boy? You say you’re the king? Then act like it!” she snapped. Alistair surged to his feet to stand before her and she didn’t so much as flinch. The two stared each other down and the threat of violence loomed heavy in the air. Alistair eventually stepped back and licked blood from the corner of his mouth and pointed at Zevran.

                “Keep him away from me,” he muttered, voice low and threatening. Harlow said nothing as Alistair stormed out of the room, shoving a guard as he did so. The room let out a collective breath and she turned about to face Zevran. The elf looked at her with a slightly bemused yet placid expression and she calmly strode to meet him, eyes locked, and struck out with an open palm. The crack resounded through the room and Zev slowly righted himself to regard her.

                “Don’t you ever do that again,” she said softly, “whatever feelings you harbor towards that man, you will not taunt him into such a reaction again. Do you understand?” Zev nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes calm. “Now, tell us what you know.”

                The Antivan cleared his throat and sat down in a nearby chair, gesturing for the others to do the same.

                “I paid a visit to Fort Drakon,” he began, “it seems an inmate was about to be released, one that could cause all manner of problems for a certain Arl who shall remain nameless. I was sent there to ensure the man never saw his freedom. Hence my less than attractive appearance, yes? It was upon my exit that I discovered that Fort Drakon was short one prisoner.”

                Harlow stared at him blankly, clearly not catching some hidden meaning.

                “Why yes, Zev, that is usually what happens when one kills a prisoner,” she stated sarcastically. Zevran slid her a sly look out of the corner of her eye and she held her hands up in apology.

                “I was not referring to the dead man. I was referring to the recently disposed Queen.”

                “You cannot mean Anora,” Harlow said laughing, “she was executed over a year ago.” When she glanced about the room for confirmation, she found no one was willing to meet her gaze. “Wasn’t she?”

                Eamon cleared his throat before speaking, his voice catching as he explained. “Anora was never executed, Harlow. She…Alistair spared her life.”

                “He pardoned her?” she screamed unable to make sense of all she was hearing. “How? Why? That woman was, at the very least, complicit with her father’s schemes and I am not altogether unconvinced that she didn’t play a part in them. Why, in the name of all that is holy, is that bitch still breathing?!”

                “We could not find proof of her involvement with Loghain’s schemes,” Leliana said softly, placing a comforting hand on Harlow’s shoulder, “only speculation and rumors. There was no reason the landsmeet would accept for ordering her death. Alistair had to settle for life imprisonment, the only concession the landsmeet would allow.”

                “I cannot believe this!” she said shrugging her friend’s arm off, she took in each one of her companions faces and felt her disbelief rise with every one. “You knew this. Every one of you. You all knew and didn’t tell me!”

                “Please understand, _mi cara_ ,” Zevran soothed, arms up in supplication, “You were in Amaranthine, we thought it best not to trouble you with something you could not change.”

                “Don’t you _mi cara_ me,” Harlow warned poking a finger against his chest, “you of all people should have told me. And now we have a traitor to the nation running free through Denerim!”

                “Now Harlow,” Eamon said pragmatically, “we don’t know for sure if Anora is behind the assassination attempts.”

                “But she a damn likely candidate,” she countered angrily, “she despises Alistair, and with good reason! The man cut her father’s head off in front of her then summarily chucked her off the throne and into prison. She has the motive, and Anora was always very good at winning unsuspecting warriors to her cause.”

                No one discounted her logic, each warily resigning themselves to the idea. Harlow felt her anger leave her in a rush, leaving her bone weary and utterly exhausted. She ran her delicate hands over her face in frustration and sighed.

                “We need to come up with a plan, but I am just too damn tired to do that right now. Place a guard on Alistair for one more night, and assign a food taster to his meals. We’ll figure out a way to catch Anora in the morning.”

                Eamon nodded in accord, and if he was displeased at her issuing orders, he made no sign of it, simply crossing the room to confer with the guards. Leliana gave her a sympathetic smile before rising.

                “It will be alright my friend,” she said softly, “we have been through worse before.”  Harlow shrugged and let out a breathy chuckle, unsure as to why she found that amusing. The bard gave her hands a squeeze before gliding out of the room, Zevran trailing behind her. The elf caught her eye, his gaze soft and apologetic. Harlow smiled slightly, a silent agreement that she forgave him his behavior. He gave her a wink before silently slipping out of the room. Harlow watched them go before sinking into a chair and letting out a belabored breath. She glanced at the corpse, lying forgotten on the table.

                “Any suggestions?” she asked. If the dead man had any, he kept his own council.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Harlow let out a moan of delight as pleasure suffused her limbs. If spending the majority of the last three years on the road had taught her anything it was that there was nothing more seductive and alluring than the pure ecstasy that could be found in a steaming hot bath. She trailed her fingers idly through the water, swirls of fragrant oils dancing on the surface. The scent of spearmint and eucalyptus hung heavy in the air, easing the tension she carried with her so much of time. She knew she should she not be indulging in such a luxury, that there were far more important things to occupy her time, but if she had her choice, she would stay in that gilded tub forever; darkspawn, assassins, and infuriating kings be damned.

                Eventually the water cooled, sending gooseflesh up her arms and she whined in displeasure. Resigning herself to the fact that her stolen moment of peace had fled she carefully got to her feet and reached for the soft linen that hung nearby. After patting herself dry as best she could she slipped into a waiting robe of deep burgundy, tying the silver cord tightly at her waist. She ached to crawl into bed, slip between the sheets and let the sweet oblivion of sleep claim her, but when she stepped out of the small washroom that connected to her bed chamber, she realized with dawning dread that it was not to be.

                “What are you doing here?” she asked, her words spaced out and precise. Alistair turned his attention from the fireplace to regard her with hostile eyes.

                “It is my castle, I go where I please,” he replied.

                “In that case, why do you not go to the laundry? I’m sure you will find a far warmer reception there than you ever will in here,” she said simply as she strode by him to let open the latch on her window. Alistair’s hand came hard around her bicep, stopping her in mid stride.

                “Why did you bring him here?” he ground out, breath reeking of liquor. Harlow yanked her arm back, breaking his grip and narrowed her eyes at him.

                “You have an assassin after you, who better to seek help from than one who makes his living at it?”

                “There are hundreds of other men you could have sought out, why _him?”_ Alistair demanded.

                “Why? Because I trust him,” she replied, turning her attention back to the window. As she pushed the pane open she took a deep breath of the crisp night air and sighed. “And I find that a quality much lacking in people as of late.”

                Alistair let out a bitter laugh before striding to the desk and picking up a glass decanter of whiskey and poured himself a glass.  “Oh Harlow, how I have missed your dry sense of humor, for surely you are joking and not seeking to lecture me on the nature of trust.”

                And with that barb, Harlow decided she had had enough. She clutched her hands to her chest in disbelief and let her words flow unchecked.

                “You’re angry at _me?_ I don’t believe it! I think only one of us gets to be pissed in this situation, and I have a feeling it’s going to be me.”  Alistair opened his mouth to retort but she didn’t give him the chance as she soldiered on with her tirade. “I am sorry that you found out about Zevran, I truly am, but I will not apologize for my behavior that night. Not to you and not to anyone. _You_ left _me_ Alistair, never forget that. You can spin all the pretty tales you want about offering me what you could, but you knew how insulting it was to even give voice to such a thing. But we still had a blight to defeat. I still had to fight beside you every day and sleep on the ground beside you every night. Under those stars I cried myself to sleep knowing that the forever you promised me was _gone_.”

                “And so you ran to the first warm body you could find?” Alistair countered, throwing his drink against the wall. Shards of light played across the room as the glass fractured and cracked into pieces. Harlow flinched at the sound, but held his gaze. “Spew all the guilt at me you want, Harlow, but we both know that you went to Zevran that night to hurt me.”

                “You do _not_ get to speak to me of hurt!” she screamed, shoving him hard. He stumbled back but caught himself, eyes blazing. “Not when you spent that night with another woman. Morrigan came to me, told me of her unnatural plan. You have no idea how much I wanted to say yes, to give into the desire that each one of us would come out whole from that battle, but I could not shake the idea that what she was asking for was wrong, and Maker help me, but I could not send you to her. Not after everything we had shared.”

                “And is it so completely out of the question that I wanted just as fiercely to see us all survive?” Alistair countered, pacing a circle around her. She remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the wall paper before her. “The idea of your body, broken and lifeless on the top of that tower was more than I could bear.”

                “That was our duty, Alistair,” she snapped as she quoted the end of the gray warden oath, “’In death, sacrifice,’ it was ours to bear and you sullied it with that evil bitch.”

                Pain flashed across his face, there and gone in a matter of seconds, his ire returning smoothly. She reasoned it had more to with the reminder that he had strayed from the path of his order than of Harlow’s harsh, yet very accurate, portrayal of Morrigan. The two stood silent for a moment, letting her words hang in the air. Harlow’s blood was beating through her veins, and though she knew she should stop, she couldn’t help put push him farther, poke harder, anything it took to make him hurt as much as she had.

                “I went to your room that night,” she said musically, taunting him with her words, “seeking companionship from the one person who would understand the sudden condition my life had taken on. And what did I hear as I raised my hand to knock? But the sound of a headboard slamming into the wall, and Morrigan’s hideous cry of pleasure.”

                Alistair closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if doing so would erase the memory from his mind. All it succeed in doing was goading her further on.

                “So yes, I sought Zevran out that night, but it had nothing to do with you. That night was about _me,_ and what I needed! That elf you so despise pieced me back together, took care of me in the only way he knew how, and for the first time since the landsmeet I felt loved and cared for. Zevran knew how to be a man that night, and you? You were a coward.”

                “Harlow, stop it,” he threatened, his voice low. She ignored him and stepped close to his face, eyes mocking him.

                “Was she worth it Alistair? Did she quiver at your touch? Call out your name to the heavens? Was the betrayal of your brotherhood and your lover worth it?” she screamed.

                “I said stop it!” he shouted as he gripped her arms in his hands and swung her toward a wall, pinning her there with undue force. The two stood there, frozen, breath coming in labored gasps. Harlow felt herself breaking inside, all of her tightly held emotions free and trembling on the surface. She knew she would deeply regret her words in the morning, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care, so energized at finally losing control and letting her pain flow.

                “I died that night,” he said softly, but intensely, “it sickens me what I did, but I did it for _you_. I’d already lost you once, I wasn’t about to let it happen again.”

                Alistair stared down at her, pain and rage etched into the features of his face. It had been her goal, to see that look of hurt and despair, one that she herself had worn for far too long, hung upon his brow. And yet, seeing it now, she could not claim a victory of it, she felt shame at having hurt him so. The part of her that had loved him, and loved him still despite everything, railed at her behavior.

                “Alistair-“ she breathed, fully intending to offer words of explanation and apology. She would have succeeded but she felt him tense, his hands digging into her arms before he lowered his head and pressed his lips fiercely to hers. Her eyes widened in shock and went deadly still. She could taste the whiskey on him, a bittersweet cloying flavor. It mixed with the heartbreakingly familiar taste of _him_ and she felt herself lean into the kiss, mouth parting in an unspoken invitation. Alistair moaned softly into her mouth, fingers kneading at her flesh.

                “Harlow,” he whispered breathlessly as they parted. She slowly opened eyes and as her gaze fell on the longing in Alistair’s eyes she felt reality rush back at her in a painful surge. Trembling she stumbled away from him, hand rising to touch her still tingling lips. Alistair’s face crumbled at the rejection and he held out a hand in a silent plea. Oh how she wanted to take that hand, twine her fingers through his and press herself against his chest, finding home once again in his embrace. But she knew how that story would end, with her heartbroken and hating him, more than she even did now.

                “No, Alistair,” she said gently. Harlow watched as Alistair’s face smoothed out into a placid mask as he drew himself up to his full height.

                “Goodnight, Arlessa,” he said hoarsely as he strode to the door. She watched him go, holding her breath, unsure as to whether she wanted him to leave or turn around. He took his leave, pausing only briefly to glance over his shoulder, the look on his face so full of regret that she had to close her eyes against it. When she opened them again, he was gone, and she was left alone with the memory of his name on her lips, whispered like a prayer.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

There is a headache that comes when far too many tears have been cried. It is a hollow sort of ache, as if the pain has already left but your skull remembers its shape and so continues to throb in time with your broken heart.

                “Andraste’s freckled ass,” Harlow muttered as she slumped over her modest breakfast the next morning. She felt wrung out and empty, having cried herself to sleep the previous night, bitter tears soaking her pillow. The morning had brought with it splotchy, puffed skin and a raging headache that would not leave her be. She knew she should get moving, start the day and begin the investigation into Anora’s whereabouts and schemes, but she just could not summon the energy to move from the table.

                “ _Mi cara_ , you look positively beautiful,” a thickly accented voice chirped from her doorway. She snapped her head up and smiled weakly.

                “You’re a terrible liar, Zev,” she said affectionately. The elf clicked his tongue and shook his head as he strode towards her. Harlow leaned back in her chair and regarded him with bemusement.

                “You think because you have suffered a night of loneliness and heartbreak that the aftereffects have altered your appearance to something ugly?” He said, a guarded look in his eyes. She shrugged, suddenly wary as he dropped to one knee in front of her. “You could never be such a thing.”

                “Zev,” she said turning her head away, “you’re laying it on a bit thick today, aren’t you?”

                He caught her chin in his hand and turned it back so that his eyes could lock with hers.

                “Harlow,” he said softly, “you are the most uniquely amazing, beautiful woman. Never doubt those words. Never let some…pathetic excuse for a man make you feel less than you are, _mi cara_.”

                She went still as he delicately brushed his lips against hers. It was the barest of contact, soft and simple and anything but chaste. When she pulled back she regarded him hesitantly, unsure of what had taken over him. Never before had her friend acted this way and she had no idea how to respond.

                “Zev,” she said softly and uncertainly but he held a hand up to silence her.

                “I am not here to ask anything of you, my friend. While I would welcome you into my bed and heart without a second thought I have always known that is not the nature of our relationship, yes? As much as it pains, you are truly besotted with that man, I see that clearly. When I offer you affection and pretty truths it is not a means to an end.  In fact it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. Who you are and what you are. You are the strongest, most caring woman I have ever met. I have seen every facet of you, _mi cara_ , the wonderful and the awful. You have faced horrors and heartbreak and _you are still standing_. You saved the world, never forget that. You are one hell of a woman, Harlow.”

                By the time he had finished she felt tears trace silent pathways down her cheeks. Zevran’s words had mended some chasm within her, one that she had used to store every doubt, painful barb, and c      feeling of “not enough” that she had carried with her since childhood. Never had someone offered such love without expecting anything in return. Her friend had given her s gift beyond price. She searched his eyes before leaning in and returning the kiss in much the same way he had bestowed it.

                “Zev, you are a very, very good man,” she whispered as she cradled his face in her hands, knowing the words were inadequate in relation to her feelings. The Antivan smiled wryly, his usual charm and flair returning to face with ease.

                “Let us keep that between us, yes? It would not do for that knowledge to get around,” he said conspiratorially. Harlow let out a true unfettered laugh, the first since she had stepped foot in the castle, and the sound rang from the rafters, filling the room with a brightness.

                Zevran got to his feet, pulling her with him. He placed a soft hand on her cheek, thumb tracing the delicate line of bone structure before smiling and taking his leave. She watched him go, happiness and the faint tinge of regret swirling within her.

                “Zevran,” she called when he had reached the door, “for what it is worth, I treasure the night we had. And I am truly sorry it could not be more.”

                He gave her a slightly sad smile and nodded.

                “As am I, _mi amore_ , as am I. But I gave you my oath, I am yours until you see fit, in whatever capacity you desire.” And with that he took his leave, quietly shutting the door behind him.

                Harlow let the silence settle around her as she strode to the window and pushed the pane open wide. She took a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh morning air and smiled. It was time to let go of the previous night and start the day.

~oOo~

 

                Harlow could hear shouting as she walked through the hallways and she followed the angry voices until she stood outside Eamon’s door.

                “Lady, I am truly sorry, but there is-“ came the muffled rumble of the Arl’s voice. He was trying to keep a layer of civility to his words, but Harlow could tell it was a strain.

                “I don’t want your apologies, shem, I want what was promised to me!” a tart and familiar voice snapped.

                “Shiani?” Harlow whispered, drawing back in surprise.

                “As I have explained _yesterday_ , my lady, the King has made his decision and you will have to abide by that, there is nothing I can do for you or your people,” Arl Eamon said tightly.

                “Then let me see that pompous jackass so _he_ can tell me to my face why he has forsaken us!”

                Harlow raised her hand to open the door, a sick feeling settling in her stomach, but the door flew open and Shiani was unceremoniously shoved out by two guards. The door slammed shut in her face and Harlow watched as Shiani beat upon it with her fists, uttering every curse in every language possible.

                “It’s nice to see you still have that fire in you, cousin,” Harlow said flatly as she regarded the woman with crossed arms. Shiani whirled about, anger melting into surprise when she recognized who stood before her.

                “Lo? Andraste, it’s really you. Oh cousin! I am so glad you are here!” Shiani cried before throwing her arms around Harlow in a bone crushing embrace.

                “Shiani,” Harlow wheezed, “it has been too long.”

                The  two stepped back from each other, warm smiles on their faces. It had been over a year since Harlow had seen her cousin, and she was pleased to note that all seemed to be well. The shadow of the brutal rape no longer clouded her features and Harlow was pleased to see that familiar steel bearing of her posture.

                “Why are you, here, Shiani? I did not expect to find you screaming your head off in the palace.”

                She watched as her cousin’s face turned dark and bitter and felt uneasiness settle over.

                “I’m here because that worthless King of ours still has yet to allocate funds for the reconstruction of the Alienage,” Shiani spat.

                “What?” Harlow asked dumbstruck, “But-but…he promised! I  was there! He gave us a voice in the landsmeet, promised to rebuild what was lost! How is it that almost two years later nothing has been done?”

                “He did give us a place on the landsmeet, for all the good it did,” Shiani muttered bitterly, “our voices get drowned out by the nobility and our pleas fall on deaf ears. King Alistair has made it quite clear that the restoration of our home is low on the list of his priorities if it is even on there at all.”

                Harlow felt her stomach roll, sick at this news of such betrayal. She remembered standing beside Alistair on the dais the day he was crowned. Remembered the gratitude and happiness she had felt when he had made promises to her people. It had given her a sense of calm; knowing that, despite what she had lost by doing so, she had made the right choice in naming him King.

                “There has to be a mistake, Shiani, something has gone wrong and Alistair is unaware of what hasn’t been done. I’m sure once he knows he’ll do everything in his power to fix it,” Harlow babbled, trying desperately to have it all make sense.

                “Once he knows?” Shiani replied with a bark of laughter, “Cousin, the King hasn’t been to a landsmeet or council meeting in _months_. He is far too busy enjoying himself with the serving girls or throwing fetes to celebrate some god-awful nobleman’s name day.”

                “Then who…who has been making decisions for the kingdom?” Harlow asked.

                “As of late? The landsmeet, bunch of entitled shems squawking on about how _their_ lands and _their_ people are a priority. Eamon tries his best to steer the King towards actual _ruling_ but he can only do so much when he’s dealing with viperous nobleman and a leader who can’t be bothered to crawl out of a bottle long enough to issue a decree.”

                Harlow felt herself go numb as she sank to the floor. Things were far worse in Denerim than she had imagined. Eamon had warned her, but she hadn’t thought it was this bad. She had imagined that despite the recent flaws in his personal choices he was still acting as _the king_. It was becoming clear that was nothing more than a fleeting hope.

                Shiani kneeled next her and asked, rather indelicately, “Cousin, why in the Maker’s name, did you make that man king?”

                “I had faith in him,” she replied dully, “it seems that was a grave error on my part and now my people are paying the price.”

                The two elven women said nothing for a stretch of minutes, letting the words hang between them. Harlow thought of all that she had learned and felt cold, icy, determination over take her.

                “Take me to the Alienage” she said softly, “I need to see this for myself.”

~oOo~

                Harlow glided through the halls of the palace, her anger fair crackling in the air. She had just returned from the Alienage and there were no words to describe the depth of her rage. Since returning to Denerim she could still see the scars left by the blight everywhere she went, but none was worse than her one-time home. While elsewhere construction and healing had taken over, the Alienage looked much the same as it had when she’d left it behind to seek out the archdemon. Skeletal husks of burned out homes stretched towards the sky, and shard of wood and glass dotted the street. Families huddled under unsafe structures, trying to find shelter in whatever way they could. The water supply was stagnant and fetid, the pump having been damaged by an orge’s mighty blow. It had yet to be fixed and the elves were forced to gather water from the market square, paying dearly for the privilege.

Visions of the injustice she had witness danced before her eyes as she sought out the focus of her rage. Servants scurried out her way the minute they caught the look in her eyes. As she rounded the corner that led to the King’s room she saw his door open and Melly slip out, a bundle of soiled linens in her arms. Harlow took in the girl’s hastily put together appearance and mused hair and felt her rage crystallize into something far worse. Melly glanced up and caught her eye; an evil, self-satisfied smirk on her lips.

                “Arlessa,” she said with mock politeness. Harlow didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction, merely shoved past her and wrenched open the door to Alistair’s room.

                The king stood at his window, clad only in a pair of loose fitting linen breeches. His back was to her and Harlow could see the silver web of scars that covered his torso. She knew the story behind each one, having been there when he received most. In the past she had delighted in tracing them softly with her tongue, taking satisfaction in the way he would shiver in pleasure as she did so. Today she itched to lash out and give him a new one, in her mind he deserved nothing less.

                She slammed the door shut behind her and watched him tense at the noise. He turned to face her and she was surprised to see he bore the same expression she did. She glanced down to see that he fiercely gripped a stack of papers in his hand, a gray ribbon trailing between his fingers,.

                “What is this, Harlow?” He asked softly, tossing the papers on the ground before them. They scattered on impact and she stared at her lazy script that marked each page.

                “It is my report, your majesty,” she replied without inflection.

                “I am well aware of that. It was a gripping story, quite the page turner. I have a _problem_ with the ending,” he said precisely.

                “And why is that?” she asked, though she was fairly certain she knew the answer.

                “A way to prevent another blight from ever happening again and you killed the man who could make it happen? Have you lost your damn mind?”

                “It was a darkspawn, not a man,” she said hotly, “are you suggesting we trust them now? The architect was insane and there was no way to know whether his plan would succeed.”

                “So your solution was to kill him, forever ending the possibility that it could work?” He shouted. “Harlow I cannot begin to tell you how reckless this was. I am _this_ close to stripping you of your command.”

                “You don’t have the authority to do that,” she said coldly, “the Grey Warden’s are not under your purview. And from what I learned today there isn’t much that lands under your purview these days.”

                “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

                “What is going on in the Alienage, Alistair?” she asked, watching a baffled look come over his face for a brief moment.

                “Don’t change the subject,” he snapped, turning away from her. She grabbed his arm and spun him back around, murder in her eyes.

                “I’ll change anything I damn well please. Why haven’t the elves received any assistance since the blight?”

                “That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, “of course they have.”

                “Don’t lie to me, Alistair, not now. _I was just there!_ It is still utterly destroyed. Nothing has been done to aid those people, _nothing_ and I demand to know why!”

                “I don’t know why!” he roared “It isn’t as if I haven’t had a few other things on my mind as of late. “

                “Those elves died for you,” she said with restraint, “they stood shoulder to shoulder with us and fought darkspawn when they had no obligation to do so. What have they done to deserve such disrespect from you and your court?”

                Alistair sighed and slumped his shoulders, striding over to his armoire and yanking the doors open.

                “I’ll look into, Harlow,” he said dismissively as he chose a loose cotton tunic and shrugged it over his shoulders.

                “I don’t even know why I bother to keep you alive,” she said softly, “you’re exactly like the rest of them. Some selfish shem who can’t see past his own petty pleasure to the suffering around him. I expected better of you Alistair, shame on me for thinking you were a good man.”

                Alistair regarded her coolly, face a placid mask she couldn’t read. He opened his mouth to reply then closed it, a queer look coming over his face. Sweat began to coalesce on his brow and he took a shaky step forward, as if remaining on his feet was becoming difficult. His skin had taken on a sickly yellow cast and his breath was coming in shallow gasps.

                “Harlow,” he breathed, “I feel….strange.”

                She barely had a moment to feel surprise before he pitched forward and fell to the floor. Eyes wide, she knelt beside him, cradling his head in her lap.

                “Alistair!” she cried, staring into his unfocused eyes. When she got no response she scrambled to the door and screamed for help. Not waiting to see if her plea was heard she rushed back Alistair’s side so she could place an ear to his chest. The thready and weak beat of his heart concerned her greatly and she grasped his shirt in her hands, balling the fabric up in frustration and fear.

                Something wet and sticky instantly clung to her skin. She jerked her hands back in revulsion and examined her palms. A cloyingly sweet and medicinal smell wafted up to meet her nose and she had a moment to think _Poison_ before dizziness over took her.

                Harlow collapsed to the ground, her body shaking as the poison coursed through her veins. Eamon and a few members of the guard burst in seconds later and rushed to the King’s side, cries of concern loud on their tongue.

                “ Don’t touch the shirt,” Harlow croaked as she felt a wave of nausea over take her, “Poisoned.”

                “Poison?” The Arl asked incredulously. Harlow nodded as her vision swan and danced before her.

                “Find Zevran,” she whispered, “he’ll…understand…”

                She closed her eyes, focusing her strength on fighting the vicious stew inside her. Time ceased to matter as she floated along in an incoherent fog for what seemed like an eternity. Distantly she could hear shouts of concern, and at one point a worried Antivan accent calling her back.

                Back? But she didn’t want to go back…it was so nice to float here. Who were these hateful people who wanted her to leave?

                Harlow settled into her new existence, exhaustion suffusing her limbs. Every now and then a jostle or movement would rip her from her reverie and she would snarl and moan at those who sought to take her from her peace. It wasn’t until quite some time had passed that she could feel a voice whispering along her skin, a voice so full of love that she arched into the sound, wanting to wrap her limbs around it.

                “Lo-Lo,” it caressed, “please don’t leave me. I love you.”

               

 


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: _Mi fiore mortalle_ is bastardized Italian for “my deadly flower.” This chapter is quite sad. BUT! I promise from now on it will begin to grow to the happy ending I have planned….what happened to Harlow was not something I had set out to write, but the story has taken on a mind of its own and I ended up there. So bear with me, happiness is coming I promise!**

Harlow came back to herself slowly. At first it was just a smattering of sensations; the feel of a callused, gentle hand caressing her, the scent of burning wood. Eventually she discovered the feel of her limbs, the way they stretched out from her being. With such a discovery came pain, the way it would spark and snap through her muscles, causing her to make pitiful sounds. Through it all she could hear the voice, pleading her to stay strong, to live. Until suddenly it quieted, slipping away into nothingness. The shock of its absence is what startled her into slowly opening her eyes so that she could search it out, bring it back to her.

                The light surrounding her was dim and shadows danced along the ceiling. She carefully turned her head to find a pleasant fire crackling in the hearth. A cursory glance alerted her to the fact that she was in a sumptuously decorated room, one quite unlike her chambers at Vigil’s Keep.  She frowned, unsure as to where exactly she was. Surely she should have been in the training yard, Nathanial at her side, barking orders to the new recruits, not lying flat on her back in this lavish room.

                “Ah, she wakes,” a voice murmured to her left and she snapped her head around, cursing a moment later as the room spun at the sudden movement. As her sight settled she found herself staring at a very handsome elf; a worried expression on his face.

                “Zev,” she croaked, her voice hoarse and faint, “What happened? Where am I?”

                “You were poisoned, my sweet, it was a near thing. I… _we_ almost lost you.”

                With his words, it all came rushing back to her; the assassination attempts, the screaming match with Alistair, and the way he had kissed her…she felt the memories crash over her and she let out a gasp. Zevran hurried to her side, a worried hand stroking her hair.

                “It’s nothing,” she said hurriedly, “just…remembering. How long was I out?”

                “Five days,” he said gravely, “it was uncertain as to whether you would ever waken. Eamon was beside himself, and the king-“

                “Alistair!” She cried, struggling to sit up, “Is he-“

                “He is fine, _mi cara_ ,” Zevran soothed as he gently pushed her back to the mattress, “in fact he is quite well off. Being the dainty little thing you are, the poison spread through your veins faster than his. We were able to heal him of the effects in less than half the time it took for us to revive you.”    

                Harlow let out a relieved breath and closed her eyes. Alistair was alive… _she_ was alive. It was almost too much to ask for. The poison had been wickedly fast acting, seeping into her flesh moments after contact. It was a variety she was unfamiliar with, having had very little use for such things in her life. She preferred to poison through food and drink; viewing it a far easier way to dispatch an enemy.

                “It was quite brilliant, you have to admit,” she muttered, gazing at the Antivan through half lidded eyes, “a fast acting poison that is absorbed through touch? I have rarely heard of such a thing.”

                “It is a rare, but not uncommon occurrence,” Zevran replied with a shrug, “the plants needed to produce such a thing are scarce and must be boiled down a very specific constituency, otherwise the toxin is useless.”

                “I do wonder how the shirt ended up in Alistair’s closet,” she mused, “very few people have access to the King’s clothing…only his steward and the….” Harlow’s eyes went wide as she tangled out the puzzle. She felt like such a fool for not having figured it out sooner. Zevran regarded her with dead eyes, letting her know he as well had figured out who was behind the deadly attack.

                _Melly_. The woman’s name hung in the air unsaid, but just as damning all the same. As a laundress she would have had ample opportunity to befoul the shirt, a simple thing really. And of course she had access to Alistair’s room, for what guard would deny the King’s mistress access to his bed? The most conspicuous evidence of all being her exit from his chamber only moments before.

                “It is being taken care of, _mi fiore mortalle_ ” her fellow assassin murmured malevolently. Harlow nodded, trusting that Zevran’s methods of interrogation would net her all the information she could desire.

                “I’m assuming you had the antidote handy, otherwise I would not be here?” Harlow said lightly, changing the subject with a teasing smile on her lips. When Zevran did not return her smile she felt her lips falter and her brow furrow. “Zev, what is it?”

                “You and Alistair were poisoned with a toxin known as ‘banshee’s blush,’ so named for the way it marks the skin of its victims,” he explained softly as he began to

                “Skin? Zevran, I don’t-“

                He held up a hand to silence her, eyes pleading for her to ask no questions. Fear began creep through her and she struggled to remain calm.

                “There is no antidote to ‘banshee’s blush,’” Zev continued as he began to slide the quilt from her torso, leaving her bare save for a thin cotton shift, “and as such it must be drawn to part of the body and expelled if there is to be any hope of the victim surviving. The path it takes in doing so can destroy any tissue or organs in its path.”

                Harlow heard the slight catch in his voice as he said the word ‘organs.’

                “Zev,” she whispered, voice pleading and fearful.

                “The healer’s tried their best, yes? But it was too much damage in too short a time. Your organs were shutting down, the poison had to be drawn to a target and drawn out from there. A choice had to be made, Harlow,” he said, “and knowing you as I do, I made it. Forgive me, Lo-Lo, but I thought it best.”   

                Harlow watched paralyzed as he softly raised the hem of her shift past her waist, revealing a horrific  crimson stain on her skin, stretching from hip to hip. Harlow breathed out shakily, fingers tracing the swirling pattern of scarlet that was such a sharp contrast to the delicate ivory of her flesh. A darkened and raised scar cut across the stain, and Harlow surmised it was where they had drawn the poison out.

                “Will I….is it…”

                “Permanent? Yes. You will bear that mark until the day you die,” her friend replied softly.

                “You said there was a choice,” Harlow inquired softly, afraid to hear the answer, “What choice was made?”

                “Understand, _mi amore_ , it had to be drawn away from your heart and lungs, or surely you would have died. The healers suggested your limbs, arms and legs, but I knew it would destroy something inside you to lose them; to not be able to dance with steal and sword, to command and fight as you were born to do…I could not let that be taken from you.”

                She nodded at the words, a wave of horror washing over her. The idea of her arms, strong and healthy, shriveled into useless knots of skin and bone was painful to think on. To think that she would never again hold a blade or gracefully step into an opponent’s guard…it made her shudder.

                “Then what was taken from me?” she asked quietly the relief in her voice plain. Zev said nothing but placed a gentle hand on the swell of her abdomen, his fingers gently pushing into the space between her hip bones. Harlow stared blankly at his hand, mind unwilling to comprehend what he was trying to say with such a gesture.

                “I am sorry, Harlow, but if you were to live, truly live in body and mind, we had no choice.”

                Harlow glanced up in time to see a single tear fall from his eye, his face grave and compassionate. It was then that it hit her and she gasped at such a loss. Her fingers curled convulsively around Zevran’s, pressing their entwined hands against her skin, as if touch and wanting would erase it all. Great, heaving sobs wracked her body as she mourned a dream she wasn’t even aware she had carried. Distantly she felt the bed shift as Zevran gently perched beside her and drew her into his arms. She was so focused on grief that she barely noticed, simply turning her head into his chest to muffle the sounds of her pain.

                Through out the night Zevran muttered soothing words of compassion and love, as if offering benediction and repentance for the choice he made. Harlow took comfort in his arms, his solid and familiar presence a balm to her pain. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Zevran heard the door to her suite open and he glanced up to find Alistair standing hesitantly in the doorway. Harlow made no indication that she had heard such a thing and a quick glance told the elf that she had slipped into slumber.

                “She knows,” Alistair said softly, a statement more than a question.

                “ _Si_ , she knows,” Zevran whispered sadly, his hand slowly stroking the soft silk of her hair.

                “Will she….” Alistair closed his mouth, unable to ask such a question. Zevran continued to observe his sleeping friend, watching her eyelids flicker as she dreamt.

                “She is not made like us, Alistair, she is far stronger. But she has carried far too much and I worry this will break her.” Alistair said nothing, swallowing hard for he knew full well he was the cause of much of that aforementioned pain. “It is up to us then, as those who love her, to make sure she stays whole, yes?”

                Alistair nodded before clearing his throat to speak, “They brought _her_ up…I came to fetch you.”

                Zevran’s face took on a hard and decisive edge, all compassion and mercy sliding away into nothing. He nodded slowly before gently slipping out of Harlow’s embrace, careful not to awaken his dear friend. Alistair turned away from the assassin as he neared the door, but made no move to follow.

                “You are not coming?” Zevran asked quietly and Alistair shook his head.

                “I cannot…I understand the need for this, and fully support it, but the truth is I did care for the girl somewhat, and I cannot stand by and watch you hurt her.”

                The Antivan elf said nothing but let a cold, knife sharp smile spread across his lips.

                “My dear king,” he said as he exited Harlow’s room, “’Hurt’ is the least of what I shall do to her.”                    

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

Harlow woke with a start the next morning, her heart pounding as her brain struggled to remember why she felt such loss. As the memory settled into her consciousness she placed a hand on her belly and squeezed, eyes closed tight against the pain. She stretched a hand out, seeking the familiar and comforting warmth of the man who held her close and soothed away her sorrow, but her palm touched only empty air and she opened her eyes in disbelief. Pushing herself up slowly to sit, she glanced about the room, eyes landing on a hunched figure seated near her bedside.

                “Alistair,” she breathed, shocked to see him. He jerked his head up at the sound, relief naked in his eyes.

                “You’re awake,” he whispered in gratitude. For a moment it seemed as if he would leap from the chair and rush to her bedside, but something in her demeanor stopped him and he coughed to hide the movement. “Zevran is….uh, busy, at the moment, so I thought I would take his post and watch over you.”

                “And why would I need watching over?” she asked numbly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

                “Zevran told me….that you knew. And for what it’s worth, I support him in his choice. I mean, as a grey warden the likelihood of it even happening to begin with…”

                “It is one thing to have the possibility, how infinitesimally small, and quite another to have it ripped away from you all together,” she muttered, a bite of anger to her words.  Alistair looked down at his hands in shame, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck. Harlow sighed and mentally forgave him his misstep, knowing he didn’t intend the words to hurt. She shakily got to her feet, hand braced against the bed post to steady herself.

                “You’ve lost something so…I can’t even being to imagine, and I thought-“ Alistair began, trying to make it better.

                “No, you can’t imagine,” she said softly, no trace of emotion evident in her, “and I heartily suggest you don’t try. I don’t begrudge Zevran his choice, all things considered; I believe he made the right one. But you cannot know what it is to lose this. That was never a dream of mine, but that does not mean I don’t mourn the absence of it.”

                Alistair watched her with sorrow filled eyes as she slowly made her way to the small bathing chamber that lay just off her room. Harlow turned back to regard him, her gaze somewhat demanding.

                “Please tell me you are not morning this with me, Alistair. Because that would be incredibly selfish of you. It’s not as if you lost anything so dear.”

                With those final words she shut the door and leaned back against the wood; a restless sigh escaping from her lips. As she went about the business of her morning routine, drawing strength from the familiarity, she allowed herself to indulge in the fantasy of what it would have been to bear and birth a child. Try as she might, however, she could not keep the edges of daydream from fraying. Every time she tried to picture herself looking after a babe the image turned watery and blurred. The fact remained that she enjoyed her life, took pleasure in using her skills to battle enemies and monsters, to kill with subtlety and grace, knowing that what she did _mattered_. If she had become a mother she would have to give it all up, as a battlefield is no place for a child.

                Harlow stared at herself hard in the mirror of her vanity, thoughts swirling in her head, and as she did so she felt something shift and settle within her, removing a layer of pain and grief. This would be just one more thing she would have to move past, but she _would_ move past it and come out the other side whole. With that thought she felt herself sit a little straighter and she began the slow process of healing this emotional wound.

~oOo~

                She fully expected Alistair to have left and was quite shocked to find him standing before her bed, a determined look on his face.

                “I lost something too,” he said quietly as he began to unlace the ties of his tunic, eyes locked with hers, “and while it in no way compares to yours; it has changed my life drastically as well.”

                Harlow eyed him suspiciously, sure that whatever injury he offered could not come to close to her misery. Morbid curiosity got the better of her however and she remained silent, her demeanor expectant and skeptical.

                “In an effort to save what they could the healer’s drew the poison to my right side….my liver was badly damaged and I lost a kidney…I’m told that if I keep indulging in drink it will kill me before the year is out,” he said bitterly as he lifted his shirt above his head and let the garment fall to the floor. Harlow laughed cold and disbelieving before she threw her arms up in an effort of surrender.

                “That’s it. That is absolutely _it!_ ” she cried, “You lose the ability to crawl into the bottom of a bottle and you think to gain my sympathy? What is wrong with you, Alistair? Have all the women and whiskey addled your brain or are you just that much of a lack wit?”

                “That’s not it at all,” he said hastily, hands up in an effort to silence her rage. “Yes, at first, I was selfish and threw quite the tantrum…which has been pointed out to me was highly embarrassing and not at all befitting a man of my age or status. I was so tempted to just continue on as I had, numbing the pain and confusion with whatever or whoever was around…I figured if nothing else it would put an end to my misery. I never wanted to be king, I still don’t particularly want to. I carry a lot of anger at you for that, Harlow.”

                “Not making it better, Alistair,” she ground out through clenched teeth, hands balled into fists.

                “But seeing you there…barely breathing and pale as a ghost...as soon as I was able I crawled to your side and begged you to stay strong, to live. And when Zevran told me what had to be done, I held your hand and wept, knowing how it would damage you. _That_ was when this attempted poisoning truly affected me.”

                She watched dumbstruck as he slowly turned around displaying the strong, muscular portraiture of his back to her. Her eyes fell upon his own scarlet stain, chasing tendrils that wrapped about his hip and disappeared into the waistband of his breeches.

                “I’ve hurt you, Harlow,” he said simply, he head angled slightly to regard her over his shoulder “in more ways than I can count. And not a word of apology has passed my lips. Yet, despite all that, you still came back, to what I can only imagine is your own personal hell to save my life. You see beyond the cost of things to what can be achieved…I understand now why you put me on that throne. And I understand even more the price you paid placing me there. That is why losing what I did has altered my life forever. You’re strength has shamed me into living. I will not choose death by a bottle; it’s about time I started living up to the King you made me. After all that you’ve given me…us…Ferelden, it’s the least I can do.”

                Alistair’s declaration was like a spear through her heart, something sharp and sudden, and so unexpected that she had no idea how to respond. Luckily it did not seem that he expected any words to be forth coming, so Harlow prudently kept her mouth shut as her mind scrambled to process this sudden shift in his personality.

After a moment’s silence she hesitantly lifted her hand to lightly trace the swirling lines that stamped his skin. She almost laughed as she did so, thinking sadly that no matter how events fell out between them, they would share this until the day they died…forever marked with the same deadly stain. Alistair stood patiently still under her touch, allowing her to explore at her leisure. It was when her delicate fingers brushed against the still healing scar that he turned about, catching her hand in his.

“It is one thing to offering pleasing words of promise, Alistair, it is quite another to follow through,” Harlow said softly, trying to maintain an emotionally distant tone. She could see he wasn’t fooled, he knew her too well for that.

“Then I shall just have to prove it to you,” he said with a slight grin. Before she could respond he swept her a bow and placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. She watched him go, dizziness overtaking her…but whether it was from the after effects of the poison or Alistair’s newfound passion for life, she could not say.

Harlow crawled shakily into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Despite it being only mid morning she felt utterly exhausted and knew it would be another day or so before she felt her old self again. As she drifted into a lazy kind of waking slumber Alistair’s speech floated through her head.

_“…as soon as I was able I crawled to your side and begged you to stay strong, to live….”_

It was then she realized: Alistair had been the voice calling to her in the darkness, keeping her tethered to this world.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I figured we would all want to know what became of Melly and the how and the why of her involvement, and voila! Here it is, I personally don’t feel a bit of sympathy for the girl. I hope this makes up for the previous, somewhat scattered, chapter. :-)**

_Elsewhere…_

Melly angrily paced back and forth between the walls of her new prison. She was glad to be out of the confines of that filthy, _disgusting_ cell in the castle dungeon but when she had been summarily brought to a sick room on the castle’s main floor it left her feeling nervous.

At first she had thought that Alistair had recovered and was asking for her. It brought her a smug satisfaction to think that having suffered such a close call that she would be the first thing on his mind. But when the guards had shoved her inside and barred the door, she found herself alone. It was then that Melly paused to consider the idea that perhaps Alistair _hadn’t_ recovered. But it was such a ridiculous notion; Anora had _promised_ her that it wasn’t enough poison to actually fell the man…just make him very ill. So ill that that prissy, gangly, _entitled_ elven bitch would try to help.

Ending Harlow Tabris’ life had been her true goal. The minute that knife ear had walked in on her and Alistair she knew that all her carefully laid plans with the king would crumble around her. The way Alistair had gazed at her…a way he had _never_ once looked at Melly; she knew that as long as Harlow was in the picture _she_ would be out of it. And she had worked far too hard to let someone battle hardened wench who didn’t even know how to be a woman come between her and her rightful place. So when Anora had approached her, slipping her a vial and a proposition she gladly took the chance she had been offered.

Anora had once been her queen and her employer. Melly had thoroughly enjoyed the status and attention that came with being a personal maid to Calin’s wife. All of that had disappeared when Loghain Mac Tir and his daughter sought to overthrow the crown and keep it for themselves. When Harlow and her merry band of misfits and criminals had thwarted the attempt Melly found herself summarily demoted to working in the castle laundry…like a _commoner!_ She thought she would perish of embarrassment, working away her life in drudgery and ignominy…that was, until she met the bastard king.

Melly remembered the day she had met him, it was the same day she had met Harlow, though she was quite certain the bitch didn’t even acknowledge her presence. She had been ordered to the King’s suite, sent to pick up his soiled linens and replace them with fresh ones. There had been rumors abound in the castle about the new liege, how he was a warrior of great renown, one of the few remaining grey wardens, and a bastard to boot. Melly had been unimpressed with it all, blaming him for her recent downturn in status. As she had neared the door that day, she heard muffled voices through the wood.

“I’ve been called away to Amaranthine,” a woman’s voice said formally. “Orders have come down that I am to be promoted to commander.”

“Is that so?” a man’s voice replied bitterly, the King’s she had supposed. Melly had no desire to interrupt but the little rodent of a man that was her current employer would have her hid if she dawdled longer than necessary. Taking a deep breath she slipped unobtrusively into the room, eyes downcast.

Neither of the occupants so much as flinched at her sudden presence, so focused were they on each other. Even having no idea what was being discussed Melly could feel the tension in the air. She went about her business, casting a quick glance towards the pair. She was surprised to see an elf in the King’s quarters but was even more stuck by how handsome the king himself was. There was no time to dwell on such things; she had a job to do after all. She began to strip the bed, an ear cocked to hear the discussion happening before her.

“Yes, it has been determined that since I was named Arlessa and you so graciously gave the land to the wardens, it would be only fitting that I would oversea our operation in that region,” the elf said stoically.

                “But now? I’ve barely settled in here, and I haven’t the first clue as to what I am doing,” the King, Alistair she recalled his name was, argued.

                “I’m sure that is untrue, your majesty, and even it if were you have Arl Eamon, who is more than capable.”

                “Don’t call me that Lo-Lo,” Alistair pleaded softly.

                “And don’t call me that,” the elf snapped back in reply. Melly had drawn in a breath at the outburst. Clearly these two had a history, a painful one. “You relinquished the right to that endearment long ago, Alistair.”

                “That’s the real reason why you’re leaving, isn’t it? Not some grand plan to rebuild our order but because you want to be away from me,” the king accused as Melly snapped afresh sheet up into the air, letting it settle gently over the mattress.

                “Is it so unbelievable that I would not want to remain in Denerim, constantly reminded of what I lost? Yes, I desperately want there to be distance between us so that I can finally begin to heal, damn you, but how arrogant do you have to be to think that I am running from you?” the elf hissed. “I have never run from anything in my life Alistair, and I have faced far scarier prospects than the idea of suffering your company. You may no longer be a grey warden, but I am. Orders are orders and frankly this is best for all of us.”

                As Melly turned her attention to placing the clean clothing in the King’s armoire she caught Alistair fall to his knees, his hands grasping the elven woman’s wrists.

                “Please, Harlow, don’t go. I need you. We can…I can figure something out, we-“

                “Alistair, don’t,” the elf said softly, her voice watery, “I beg of you. We’ve said all this before and it is too painful to bear one more time. You’ve made your choice…do not begrudge me mine.”

                Melly couldn’t help but slyly watch as the elven woman slid out of the King’s grasp and strode to the door.

                “Harlow, I love you,” he said almost desperately. The woman stilled, and sighed.

                “I wish that were true, Alistair,” she whispered before quickly exiting. Melly gave herself a mental shake and finished up her business. When she turned to leave, she found herself staring straight into the tear bright eyes of the king.

                “My apologies, your majesty, I did not mean to intrude,” she murmured quietly, quickly falling into a curtsey. When he said nothing she rose and hurried out of the room, pausing only once to take in the overwhelming loss and pain that seemed to envelop the man. As she made her way back to the laundry her mind began to spin out a plan to place her firmly back in the hierarchy of the castle.

                After that day it had taken very little work to win her a place in the King’s bed. He had been so broken by that blighted elf that he craved any sort of affection and Melly was only too willing to give it. She had been determined to get with child, but despite her best efforts it had not happened. Every month her courses came on she cursed her ill fortune. Having earned the place of the King’s mistress had gained her some respect, but she would not be satisfied until he named her mother of his heir. Oh she was not so naive to think that he would marry her, after all her family was not even a twig on a noble family tree, but she was quite aware about how King Alistair felt about siring bastards. Having been one himself he had confessed to her that he would never subject a child to such a life. If she could produce a child from their couplings she would rise to such a status, a status befitting her and all she deserved.

                Then Harlow Tabris had waltzed back into her life and ruined everything. So when Anora’s agents had sought her out, promising a solution to her problem she had eagerly agreed to meet her former queen. Melly didn’t think to ask why Anora would want Harlow Tabris dead, the answer wouldn’t have mattered. All she had required was the assurance that Alistair would not perish, and having received such promises she happily set out to complete her task.

                As she thought back upon the course of events that brought her to her present predicament she felt herself grow angrier by the minute. Clearly it had all gone wrong, or else she would not be here. No one had seen her leave Alistair’s suite, save for that bitch Tabris, but seeing as she would soon be dead it had not mattered. So she was utterly surprised when the guard had burst into the laundry and without a word hauled her off to the dungeon. No matter, Melly had always been a quick witted and calculating woman; she would simply have to come up with a story to explain away her part in this disaster.

                Having decided on a course of action she settled into a seated position on one of the many cots placed about the room and began to let her mind spin out a tale. It was then that she noticed the rusty brown shadow that stained the starched linen of the cot. She ran her fingers over the stiff fabric then pulled her hand back in disgust when she realized it was blood.

                “Such a simple thing, is it not?” a heavily accented voice purred from across the room. Melly jumped at the sound and stood to face a devilishly handsome elf.

                “Who are you and why have I been brought here?” she demanded, back held straight and proud. The elf ignored her and strode to the cot, his eyes lingering over the bloodied frame.

                “Such a small, almost dismissive thing that signifies such loss,” he murmured queerly as he bent to touch the stain. Melly took a step back in revulsion, certain the man was almost _caressing_ it in some twisted sort of affection. “It is strange, I have seen her bleed far more, and from much more dire wounds, but this was different. It was something less…but far dearer.”

                  She was beginning to lose her patience and opened her mouth once more to demand he answer her queries but when he turned his attention to her and pinned her with a gaze so void of emotion and life, she felt words die still born in her throat. Those woodland eyes held no shred of humanity…they were utterly dead. It was frightening to be regarded under their weight.

                “I’m sure you have questions,” he said as he stalked towards her causing her to back away in retreat, “I understand. I have questions myself, yes? But I am sorry to inform you that no answers shall be forth coming. At least for you…I am quite certain that I will receive all of mine.”

                Melly felt her back hit the stone wall and her heart beat faster as the elf advanced on her. Up close she could see the tattoo that traced the graceful line of his cheek bone. She tried to tell herself that he was nothing but an elf, no true danger to her…such thoughts were silenced as he seemed to produce a very long, very thin, and _very_ sharp blade.

                “I’ll tell you anything you want,” she whimpered, “I promise!”

                “Of course you will, my dear,” he said musically as he lowered the blade to the swell of her breasts and pressed lightly. She hissed in shock and pain as her flesh parted effortlessly and blood trickled across her skin. “But for such a thing to happen, I would need to ask you a question. And I am not in a talking mood.”

It didn’t take long for her world to become nothing but pain.

 


End file.
